


Not Forever

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 33,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moe French owes Mr Gold money. As usual it is up to his long-suffering daughter to clean up his mess.</p>
<p>Trapped in an impossible situation, Belle finds herself agreeing to Mr Gold's shocking proposition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deal Me In

Looking back, Belle was hard pressed to understand why she had not turned heel and high tailed it out of Mr Gold’s imposing office in a glorious blaze of righteous indignation. Yet she had remained seated in the expensively upholstered uncomfortable chair that was torture to stay on for long. He was, after all, the petty kind of man who would delight in making his victims as uncomfortable as humanly possible. 

Really, she didn’t know who she was more disappointed in, herself for debasing herself infront of Gold or her stupid, inconsiderate, lazy, good for nothing, coward of a father. 

Well, that answered that one then.

Moe French was a gambler. It wasn’t his fault really she supposed, he had always been like that. Forever chasing impossible riches by turning over just one more card. This time he had landed them both in deep, deep, deep. Trouble. She had started capitalizing this Trouble in her head since she had heard about the whole business from her drunken, sobbing, terrified, idiot of a progenitor. 

Belle was a dreamer in her own way too, not for riches or fame or even love. She dreamt of freedom. She wanted the freedom to live quietly in a sweet little house without the worry of being kicked out by an angry landlord. She craved the security of having enough money to pay for groceries every week and to be able to actually cook them without having the electricity cut off halfway through a carefully planned baking session. Really, her ambitions weren’t lofty by any means. She was nearly 21 years old, still living with her forgetful, selfish, hopeless, liar of a Papa. 

The last time she had scraped and saved her way into nearly enough money to leave home and start her own way in the world was five years ago, when her father had forged her signature to “invest” in a horse that simply could not lose! She had been utterly shocked when she checked her balance to find that he had gambled away her security for a house. Of course she had forgiven him, he had said that he was sorry and that he’d change, that he’d get help. He hadn’t.

Belle worked long, dull hours in a supermarket, stacking shelves and cheerfully pointing customers in the right direction for the billionth time to the same brand of frozen puff pastry that nobody could ever seem to find. She did not buy pretty dresses with her earnings, she did not spend the weekend partying around the town, she did not go out for meals with her few friends and she certainly did not date handsome young men. She worked, she slept and she took care of Moe French, because really- he was all she had.

She hadn’t met the town’s notorious villain before going to his office and asking his harassed secretary for an appointment to see her boss. She was surprised when, on giving her name, the woman had said ‘Oh yes! Miss French, Mr Gold said you’d probably drop by- I’ll just see if he’s free.” She left the ante-room, knocking lightly on the dark wooden door separating her room from her employers. Belle was left feeling utterly bewildered that the man to whom they owed a large, undisclosed amount of money to was expecting a visit from a girl he’d never laid eyes on before. She had heard that the man had an uncanny omniscience but really, that was just creepy.

The secretary half smiled at her as she waved Belle through the door, ‘Mr Gold will see you straight away Miss French.’ she dropped her voice to a whisper as Belle walked past her ‘you're in luck, I think he’s in a good mood.’

Belle, feeling slightly guilty that the reason for her visit would rather blow that good mood to smithereens, thanked her.

She walked across the large expanse of empty carpet towards Mr Gold’s desk. The blinds were partially closed, blocking out the bright summer sun and a window was obviously open because the breeze drifted through, making the shadows dance across the surprisingly diminutive figure behind the desk. 

Mr Gold was sat back in his big leather chair, his hands steepled under his chin. Large grey eyes regarded her with keen interest. Belle had the impression that his entire attention was focused upon her approach to the desk and wished that she had chosen to wear her other pair of jeans, they may have had fewer holes in them. She felt very uncomfortable and embarrassed for the reason for her visit.

The man, who was perhaps about forty, gestured elegantly towards the chair opposite his desk, his eyes did not leave her face as she nervously sat down, clutching her rather shabby handbag on her lap, as if it would somehow give her the courage she lacked.

‘Miss French. How may I be of assistance?’ His voice was accented with a smooth scottish brogue, his tone was moderate and his words polite. Why then did she feel a frisson of fear race down her spine?

Belle swallowed. ‘Thank you for seeing me Mr Gold. I have come on behalf of my father, sir. He is...’ drowning his sorrows in a bottle ‘...unable to come himself I’m afraid. I would like, if I may, to discuss the debt that is owed to you. It’s necessary for me to pay it off instead, he can’t.’ She darted her tongue out to wet her dry lips, she hadn’t had time to grab a drink after her shift ended. ‘I’m sorry, my father didn’t tell me the exact terms- but I have some money I’ve been saving and I can take extra hours at the store- I will do everything I can to settle this Sir.’ She spoke the last bit too quickly really, she thought, her cheeks burning. 

Mr Gold wordlessly pushed an open file towards her, with the details of how much Moe French had borrowed from him, the expected rate of return and her Father's signature at the bottom and...oh for pity's sake! he’d done it again, added his daughters name next to his to act as a guarantor. Belle felt something die inside her at that moment, she resolved to herself that this was it. No more. She couldn’t show loyalty to a man who forged her signature on contracts for insane amounts of money that Belle simply did not have. She would not snitch on him though, not this time, she would try to sort this mess out for him and then cut him off. Never again.  
‘Mr Gold. Sir. I don’t have this amount of money right now, but I will do my very best to...’ He cut her off with another sweep of his hand. 

‘Miss French. Spare me. Believe me when I say I have heard it all before. Lets keep this as civilized as possible shall we? You, in two concise sentences will please tell me firstly when I am going to get what is owed to me and secondly, if the first answer is unsatisfactory...what you are going to do to get it to me quicker.’

Belle flushed. Mr Gold had a thoroughly nasty way about him lurking underneath the polite words. She briefly considered fleeing and leaving Moe to sort out his own mess but she was not a coward, so she didn’t.

Instead she raised her head, looked him in the eye and quietly said ‘I don’t know, Sir. Everything and anything I possibly can.’

Mr Gold smiled. A gleam in his eye, he leaned forward, propping his elbows on the polished surface of his desk, ‘anything my dear? Well then. It seems we have a starting place from which to bargain.’

‘I can take extra hours at the...’

He cut her off again ‘at the store, yes you’ve already mentioned that idea dearie. I think we both know I’d have to take half your wages for the next thirty years for you to repay this. Unfortunately, patience isn’t something I possess in abundance.’

He tapped a long, unusually white finger on his thin lips as though he was musing. ‘Ah. I have it. You will need a different vocation. I happen to have a position just suited to you. A year, Miss French. One Calendar year and I will write the debt off.’

‘Wh- what? what kind of position?’

He tilted his head to one side, regarding her. ‘Companion,’ he said after a slight pause. ‘Yes. Companion might be the best way to put it.’ 

Belle’s eyes widened, her fear still dancing up and down her vertebrae. ‘M-Mr Gold?’ She wasn’t stupid, she understood what he was inferring- but was so stunned by the idea that his words failed to register.

His eyebrows slammed downwards momentarily and the young thing opposite him shrank further back into her chair. ‘I see you are going to make me spell this out for you dearie, which is a shame as I have already told you that my patience is limited.’

Belle sat there, frozen aside from the nervous chewing of her bottom lip. Mr Gold reached forwards, another sheet of paper in his hands. Another contract. ‘Read this dearie.’ He watched her take the contract with trembling fingers. ‘The way I see it Miss French, is that your position is precarious. You do not have my money, you are not able to get my money, your father is also being typically unhelpful. In your lovely hands is a contract which will provide me with 365 days of your fair company. You will live with me, eat with me and sleep with me. In exchange, I will expunge your debt and if, by the end of the year you have kept to the letter of our agreement I will also provide you with a flat to compensate for your loss of earnings at the store.’

He spoke calmly, smoothly and without a hint of embarrassment; as though he propositioned desperate clients on a regular basis. Perhaps he did, the contract was already drawn up after all. 

‘Will you sign, Miss French?’ His voice had dropped to a hissing, sibilant whisper- she sensed an urgency in his tone, but a fleeting glance up to his face revealed a countenance that was impassive, as though her answer made no difference to him whatsoever. A vague sense of deja vu hit her and she blinked to clear her head.

Belles brow was furrowed. The stress of the last two days left her suddenly drained. She had not slept well since finding Moe a sobbing, heaving, drunken wreck slumped over the kitchen counter. He had wailed that he had failed, that the cops were going to come and lock them up- if they were lucky, if they were unlucky then Mr Gold would get to them first.

She did not want to go to jail, she also didn’t want to end up dead with her remains dumped in the forest, which is what her dear old dad seemed to think was Mr Gold’s routine way of dealing with the few fools who broke a deal. 

One year. Well, it wasn’t forever after all. She reached down, picked up the heavy gold pen that Mr Gold had rolled over to her and signed.


	2. A Complete Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Gold pays attention to details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to the fabulous Ladyofjest for kindly beta-ing this for me. Without her eagle eye, misplaced comma's and ellipses would abound.
> 
> This chapter is from Mr. Gold's p.o.v and in terms of time, takes place before chapter one.

**   
** There were days when Montgomery Gold loathed Storybrooke, and one such day occurred when he was forced to cross town to the pokey little florist’s flat to collect a special order. He didn’t trust the quivering little man to deliver the rare ghost orchid to his home. He might start poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Besides, French was making a decent profit on procuring him the flower, and Gold considered it in his interests to find out more about him -- just in case leverage was ever needed.   
  
He was so close to  something extraordinary, after decades of fiddling with chemistry sets, making up strange potions from the ancient herblore tomes that he had collected over many years, he could actually feel it. Since he was a boy, he had been convinced that he would unearth some great power to give him advantage over others.   
  
Gold craved power: he had sought it his entire life. Physically, he worked hard to be stronger than others; mentally he got his edge by pouring over books at every opportunity -- honing his intellect. Interestingly, his greatest power stemmed from the useful combination of wealth and intimidation. The people of Storybrooke  feared  him, he knew it -- revelled in it even. True, it made for a rather lonely existence, but when he wanted company he had found that buying it wasn’t any great difficulty.   
  
The ghost orchid played a key part in his latest experiment and had proven rather tricky to procure. It hadn’t escaped his notice that people did not leave Storybrooke, but he didn’t usually care -- he was the most influential man in town; why would he want people to get away from that? He had enlisted the aid of Moe French in locating the flower and getting it into his shop. The florist had been only too happy to help, he thought with contempt. The faintest whiff of money and Moe would do anything with a smile.   
  
Looking around the flat, he wondered where it all went. He hadn’t had much to do with French as they really didn’t move in the same circles. The flat was shabby and worn but very clean: the furniture was faded and there were few ornaments around. He didn’t fancy sitting on the couch, which would prove hard to get out of even with his cane and so he remained standing, eyes wandering around the room. The only thing of any possible interest to a bored guest was the row of three photographs carefully arranged on the mantel. One was of Moe, one of a dark-haired, plump woman who was presumably the dead wife and the other a more recent picture of a young lady. Gold moved closer to examine it. It was a very good picture, artistically speaking. The girl looked straight at the camera with a half smile and fond  laughter in her blue eyes. A dainty hand was raised up by dark eyebrows, drawing him in -- making him look again. Gold noticed next the teardrop necklace that lay, slightly off-center, across the girl’s pale chest. After that he saw the faint ridge of a healed scar on her index finger. He felt a prickle of warmth on his face and willed the blush to subside. To his annoyance, French then entered the room, bearing the ghost orchid with some pride.   
  
‘Ah! Mr Gold Sir, here we have it. Very tricksy to get hold of, very tricksy in-deedy.’ Really, the man did not need to speak like an infant. Mr. Gold saw the avarice on his face and took out his cheque book.   
  
‘Well then, French, we said five thousand for the plant and an extra ten percent commision for you, did we not?’ Gold tried not to let his eyes stray back to the photograph. It was very strange, but he felt a strange impulse to pick it up, put it in his pocket, and take it home with him to look at as much as he could. He usually only felt that way about rare and priceless antiques, not a picture of a young woman in a tatty frame. Casually, he indicated it as he took his favourite gold pen from his jacket pocket. ‘Is that your daughter then, French? It’s a very good photograph. I don’t believe I have ever encountered Miss French before, odd that -- since we’ve lived in the same town for nigh on twenty years.’ He deliberately infused a faint tone of accusation into his voice, intending to make the man feel nervous. It was a game really, too easy in this case -- Moe took the fun out of intimidation.   
  
What was interesting was that the round little man looked positively shifty and a little alarmed. It was clear in his body language when he answered. ‘Aye, yes. Thats my little Belle. It was taken this year on her birthday.’ He stopped and looked anxious before continuing ‘She was in the hospital until she turned eighteen, she was... ill. She’s twenty now and works a lot at the supermarket.’   
  
‘Indeed,’ Gold remarked, coolly, before handing over the cheque into the florist’s twitching fingers. His naturally suspicious mind had deduced that there was some mystery involving the lovely Belle French. He looked at the picture again and felt that foreign, strange feeling in his chest and wondered what it meant.   
  
Moe French carried the orchid down the narrow stairs to the car for Gold. Mr Gold had enough trouble going down steps that he did not want his very expensive flower potentially damaged in the journey.   
  
Moe handed the dainty bloom to Mr Gold’s impassive driver with a mock-serious comment about driving carefully with it buckled up in the front seat. The dour, heavily muscled giant didn’t even crack a smile.   
  
At home, his leg finally comfortably resting on a footstool, Gold looked at the ghost orchid. He supposed that he ought to feel more triumphant in its acquisition; however, in spite of the extraordinary delicacy of the white petals, his mind was entirely focused on the flower man’s daughter. Really, her eyes were remarkably expressive: it was the laughter in them that had caught his attention. Gold did not laugh often, and when he did it was an admittedly sinister sound, wonderfully effective in making grown men very, very nervous. He was quite sure that when he laughed his eyes did  not light up and sparkle with the joy of the moment.   
  
It was an interesting subject to muse on for the evening and if other thoughts intruded, such as how Belle came by that interesting little scar or what her voice might sound like... well he did not try to stop them. He felt oddly warm when he thought about Belle French and he had been cold for so very long.    
  
The next morning, Gold summoned his driver and general dogsbody. The man stood in front of his desk, waiting for the boss to finish his cup of tea. He elected not to sit due to previous experience with that blasted uncomfortable chair. Mr Gold carefully set down the teacup and picked up a file, handing it to Fletcher who opened it and looked questioningly at him. Gold grinned.   
  
‘Uh... it’s empty, boss.’   
  
‘Yes, dearie. I want you to fill it.’   
  
Fletcher relaxed. Reconnaissance was something he understood better than Mr Gold’s very strange sense of humour.   
  
‘Who is the mark, sir?’ he asked.   
  
‘Belle French, daughter of Moe French. Works at the supermarket --’ a sneer crossed his lips -- ‘and lives above the florist’s shop.’ Mr. Gold steepled his fingers and regarded his balding employee. ‘She isn’t to be approached. I want to know everything about both her and her father. Where she goes, who she sees... what she does with every second of her time. Do you understand?’   
  
Fletcher nodded. He didn’t ask why. He wasn’t suicidal and Mr. Gold was notoriously changeable with his moods.   
  
‘Anything else, Mr. Gold?’   
  
Silence descended for a moment as the man behind the desk regarded his fingernails. ‘Do I own the florist’s shop, Fletcher?’   
  
‘Not that I know of, no sir.’   
  
‘Get hold of the deeds will you? That file needs filling first though, dearie. You have two days.’ Mr. Gold’s finger wagged from side to side in a manner that might be playful if it wasn’t accompanied by the mad little smile on the boss’s face. ‘Off you go now, Fletchy, I don’t pay you to stand about.’   
  
Fletcher didn’t think to argue: it wasn’t worth the hassle, and people didn’t win arguments with Montgomery Gold.    
  
Two days later, a bulging file was put on the highly polished Brazilian rosewood desk.  A tired-looking Mr. Gold practically pounced on it, which Fletcher found strange as his boss wasn’t usually enthusiastic about anything. Fletcher found it in his jaded heart to feel a little sorry for the Frenches. He worked for Gold and was paid well for it, but even he tried to avoid his employer’s notice as much as he possibly could.   
  
He left the office, closing the door quietly behind him. Gold didn’t acknowledge his retreat by so much as a nod. His attention was riveted on the file in front of him. He picked up a photograph, taken from afar, which showed Belle French exiting the library, a bundle of books clutched tightly to her chest. She wore a faded, hole-ridden pair of jeans that looked as though they had been bought for someone larger. A slim young woman, shorter than average, she had a wistful, pensive expression on her beautiful face. Gold lightly traced a finger over the photograph in wonder. What  was  it about this young woman that made it impossible to think of anything but her? He turned his attention to the rest of the file, as close to content as he could ever remember being.   
  
After that, Mr Gold’s life became considerably busier. He acquired the florist’s shop and the supermarket. He had very nearly memorized Belle French’s file and worked out nearly every single way he could exploit Moe French’s unfortunate vices. He bribed and blackmailed the other two money lenders in town so that, when Moe next tried to borrow money to feed his gambling habit, he would be forced to come to Mr. Gold for it. He raised the rent on the florist’s shop and leant heavily on the supermarket management to make less overtime available for everyone. It was all easy enough to arrange for a man of his reputation and means.   
  
He didn’t feel guilty about what he was doing to the unsuspecting young woman’s life. As usual, he thought only of what he wanted and how he was going to get it. His dreams, in the moments that he slept, were filled with a pair of unmoving, laughing, bright blue eyes. Something inside him had loosened and shifted at the mere sight of little Miss French and in his saner, lighter moments, he wondered it might have been his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those of you who took the time to comment on my last chapter, your encouragement makes this whole ordeal less scary!
> 
> Now that you know where the comment box is...
> 
> ;)


	3. Poker Faced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle adjusts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, many thanks to LadyofJest who made this much more readable than it actually is. If you find any mistakes, they're mine-- I fiddled. 
> 
> Not much goes on in this chapter, its transitional. The pace will pick up in a few chapters time, promise.

The next few days seemed surreal to Belle. She mostly spent them getting organized to leave the apartment that she currently called home. She went to work her shift at the supermarket as usual, but at the end of it told her manager she would not be returning. Belle didn’t like letting people down, but at least her leaving would cut the payroll a little -- they’d been refusing overtime recently, so perhaps there were monetary difficulties for the store. She hoped not, since a lot of people, herself included, relied on their job stacking shelves. It was certainly boring, but it did put food on the table.

There was very little packing that needed doing. She didn’t own a suitcase and so put all her clothes and shoes into a garbage bag. It wasn’t even full by the time she was done. She had been frugal for so long, only buying what was necessary in the hope that one day her father would actually see some sense and keep the shop money for bills instead of dumping it in the middle of a poker table every other night. Her father hadn’t emerged from his room since she’d come back from meeting Mr. Gold, even when she knocked on his door to tell him that she had sorted it all out and that he didn’t need to worry about the debt anymore. She waited for a response, but none came. She hoped he had heard her and continued. ‘Dad. You forged my signature on that contract. I didn’t say anything, of course. _Dad_. This has got to stop, you can’t... you can’t keep using me like this. I... _won’t_ put up with it anymore.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m moving out. I hope... I hope you get yourself sorted out -- or at the very least, find someone you will allow to sort you out _for_ you, you’ve never let me.’ She said this as calmly as possible, but couldn’t keep the note of plaintive sadness out of her tone. ‘I hope you come out to say goodbye. I’ll be gone in the morning.’ She was met by silence and she started to cry, ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry I wasn’t more important to you than a deck of cards and dollar bills.’ The volume of her voice rose as unfamiliar anger took hold of her, ‘I’m SORRY you never cared enough about me to let me have a proper education, or to make sure there was enough food to eat! I’m sorry that my loyalty to you is stronger than yours to me! That I have _whored myself out_ , to keep you from ruin and you cannot even bring yourself to _talk to me!_ ’

The silence from beyond the door was inexorable; it defeated her.

Anger left her as quickly as it came. She wasn’t used to it and it left her feeling sick and shaken. She grabbed the garbage bag with all her possessions and headed out the door, slamming it behind her with satisfaction for the first time in her life. It was only fair -- she had grown up too quickly. Why not regress tonight until adult reality once more caught up with her tomorrow?

She wouldn’t go back to the apartment. She certainly wouldn’t go to Mr Gold’s house a day early, for all his gentlemanly behaviour as she left his office yesterday -- escorting her to a car that would take her home, even bowing over her hand for pity's sake! Who did that anymore anyway? He still gave her the creeps. She found herself walking towards the convent at the edge of the town, pondering the person of Mr. Gold.

She wouldn’t lie to herself, the thought of going to bed with the man petrified her. It wasn’t his age, his lame leg, or even his greying hair that bothered her; it was the sinister look in his eyes and the nastiness which was legendary in Storybrooke that _really_ put her off sleeping with him. She _had_ promised to though. 

Belle French had an unusual attitude to promises, it certainly differed from her Dad’s loose approach. She had a childlike faith in a promise, thinking of it as a solemn, _binding_ thing that ought not be broken. Her word meant something to her, she figured that breaking her contract with Mr. Gold would not only bring dire consequences from him, she would have to live with the shame of knowing she had betrayed her own code. Belle wondered what he would be like to her, what did he want from her? Was it just convenient access to a woman that appealed to him? She sighed, and hoped he would be good to her. Belle knew that worrying about it constantly would do her no good, there was nothing to be done about the situation- sex with Mr. Gold was inevitable and she was determined to endure it. She couldn’t hold back a grimace at the thought. Belle resolved to push it to the back of her mind until the following night, when she was actually with him. 

The Mother Superior offered her a bed for the night without question. She was a sweet old thing, really, thought Belle, so very desperate to help a weary soul. And Belle _was_ weary. She felt exhausted and lay down gratefully on the narrow little bed the women made up for her. She really hoped she hadn’t turned one of them out of their room. Belle had enough guilt just for now. She wondered if the mother superior would have been so ready to offer her a bed had she known that the desperate young woman seeking shelter would be spending the next year living in sin with the man who had reportedly tried to evict the entire monastery a few years ago. She knew she shouldn’t find that funny, but it appealed to her sense of the ridiculous even as she utterly disapproved of Gold’s ruthless streak.

As she fell asleep, her thoughts remained on Mr. Gold. She was determined to be as honourable about this ‘companion’ role as she possibly could be. She would be kind to him, polite, and she would go out of her way to make his life easier. She did not like the man -- who did? -- but he had pardoned both her and her father from an awful fate, both at his hands and those of the law. She may not like his motives, but she would not keep hate in her heart. It wasn’t healthy and it wasn’t in her nature.

Her last thoughts, drifting off, were that he must be awfully _sad_ to feel so isolated that he thought a contract was the best way to get some female company. As if human contact and physical affection were commodities rather than a wonderful gift. As her eyelids drooped lower, a stray whisper in her mind murmured that really, she almost pitied him.

The next morning, Belle chose not to dwell on the fact that Mr. Gold had sent a car to the gates of The Saints of the Sister Melissa in order to collect her. She blushingly handed her garbage bag to the enormous man in a dark suit and smiled her thanks when he held the door open for her. The driver, whose name was Fletcher apparently, wasn’t the chattiest of individuals. He seemed surprised by Belle’s cheery attempt at conversation; clearly, he had been expecting tragedy and tears. The way she saw it, moving into Mr. Gold’s house could be a sort of adventure -- he didn’t seem the sort to refuse her to feed her, and he had said quite clearly in his office that he wasn’t interested in damaging her. Of course, he hadn’t said it nicely -- that would have been out of character, but at least he hadn’t looked offended when she had stammered out a demand that he assure her physical safety.

‘When I have the _urge_ to hurt people dearie, I will be sure to avoid you. You are far too pretty to keep in anything other than pristine condition.’

Well, that had almost been a compliment, if she were a vase or a dog. Perhaps he couldn’t help but sound sinister.

They pulled into Mr. Gold’s driveway, and Fletcher opened the car door for her so that she found herself standing in front of a very large terracotta and black-coloured house. She couldn’t resist an amused smile at the exterior -- in some lights it might almost look _pink_. The humour of it bolstered her spirits and by the time Fletcher had ushered her into the dark hallway she only felt a little trepidation.

Of course, her courage turned tail and left when Fletcher closed the front door behind him. He left her clutching her garbage bag and standing alone in an empty hallway. An armoire stood against a wall with a statue on its polished surface. She wandered through what might have been a very cluttered dining room until she found an old-fashioned kitchen. Seeing it was empty, she turned to go out the way she came and squeaked in alarm when she saw Mr. Gold leaning on his cane and watching her intently from the doorway. He bade her good morning without breaking his gaze from her face, before gesturing to the kitchen table which had various breakfast foods laid out on it. He himself went to sit down at the table’s head. Belle stood there, dumbly watching him fill up his plate. Another place had been laid next to him. She put down her bag on the floor and went to sit.

‘I gather they didn’t trouble to feed you at the convent then, Miss French,’ he said quietly. He watched her reach for an apple and narrowed his gaze at her trembling fingers, knife poised to cut the fruit up. ‘You must be very hungry, your hands are shaking though lack of food.’ He took the apple and the knife from her, methodically coring and slicing it.

Belle gave him a relieved but embarrassed smile. At least he didn’t think she was a cowardly fool. She remembered her resolution to be polite.

‘I am very hungry, I skipped dinner last night. Are you off to your office this morning, Mr. Gold?’ He nodded, attention on the apple. She ploughed on, ‘What would you like me to do whilst you are gone? Laundry? Cooking?’

He shrugged and handed the apple pieces back to her. ‘I have a housekeeper come in and do that in the afternoons. You may do as you please -- I’ll be back at six and I daresay you will be here eagerly awaiting my return.’ He said it casually, the faintest hint of sarcasm seeping through, but Belle felt instinctively that there must be some hidden meaning behind his words. 

She settled for a nod and ate her apple. Although Belle tried to ignore her proximity to him, she really would have preferred to leave a space of a few chairs when there were just two of them at the table, but thought it might have been rude to move her plate further away from him with his eyes so watchful. She had promised him companionship, after all. The two ate in silence until satisfied, while Belle hid a jump every time Mr. Gold’s arm brushed hers and kept her feet firmly tucked beneath her chair. 

He stood and reached for his cane after he had drunk his second cup of tea, ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’ He held out his hand to help her up. His fingers were cool against her skin, and Belle tried very hard to appear as collected as he was. 

He kept hold of her hand as he led her through the house, showing her the rooms. They must have looked an odd pair, him holding hands with a woman half his age, her shabby clothes providing a stark contrast with the fine material of the elegant three piece suit that he wore with such easy grace. She wondered if he ever wore anything other than suits, thinking he might look a little strange in a pair of jeans. Still, he couldn’t wear a full suit to bed, could he? He must at least wear pajamas then -- maybe he would not seem so scary when his toes were on display. Belle went red, remembering that she’d probably find out soon enough. Mr. Gold noticed of course, raising a brow but merely commenting that he’d never encountered that particular response to his mud room before. Belle refused to meet his eyes and strove to keep her mind from straying.

Gold was clearly not a talkative sort of man; as led her around the downstairs, he spoke only when he had something important to point out. He did not waste his breath by naming the patently obvious functions of each room he took her into.

He led her up the stairs and into the master bedroom. It was certainly large enough, and a bay window _would_ have let floods of light in, had it not been for the heavy drapes and muslins that diffused the sunshine. Mr. Gold clearly preferred his privacy to a wonderful view of the outside world.

Belle might have pulled her hand away then, in order to see what could be seen out of the window, but Mr. Gold tightened his grip when she tried to pull away. She looked up at him questioningly, but his eyes were fixed on the silvery scar on her index finger and she held her breath as he raised it to his lips. Gold lightly pressed his mouth against it, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, and Belle released a shaky breath. He heard it, flicking a brief, considering look at her face before he wound his other arm, hand still clutching the cane, around her shoulders and crushed her mouth to his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those of you who leave a message, it's so nice to see people are reading and when people leave a comment I get a happy boost. 
> 
> Also, I think I have worked out the mysteries of italics in AO3. Yayness.


	4. Full House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle spends the first day in Mr. Gold's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, LadyofJest for giving this chapter a good dust and polish, it needed it. :)
> 
> To those of you who read and commented, many thanks I enjoy reading your thoughts. I think I ought to mention that I will be sticking to the 'T' rating for this story, if it changes at all it will probably be on account of violence not lovin'. *cackles*
> 
> Lets get on with it shall we? Belle will expire from anxiety if you keep reading my authors notes...

After Mr. Gold departed for the office -- ‘Rent doesn’t collect itself dearie!’ -- Belle wandered around the house trying to familiarize herself with her new home. Mr. Gold had forbidden her from opening only one door in the house, behind which lay a stairwell that led up to the attic. His lab, he had said mockingly, full of nasty chemicals that she wasn’t to worry her pretty little head about. He stopped short of patting her on the head and Belle in turn refrained from waving her rather high chemistry grades in his face. She had been fairly sure that he was goading her so she settled for a too sweet smile and refused him the satisfaction.

He was a mercurial fellow, Belle mused as she wandered out into an overgrown garden. One moment he’d been passionately kissing her mouth like it contained the sweetest, richest wine on earth and the next abruptly releasing her to leave for work. It left her feeling confused and rather anxious about the coming night. 

The house had a large rambling garden, walled in from the sides of the house and apparently only accessible through the kitchen door. It was a nice enough day, and Belle was desperate for distraction from the overwhelming atmosphere of the house, so she grabbed the largest pair of kitchen scissors she could find and attacked the overgrown rose bushes. By the time she had gotten them into shape, she went for the weeds nearest the house. Belle knew about flowers -- they were familiar friends to her -- and every moment she spent in the fresh air, the effort putting a bloom on her cheeks, was a moment of happiness that she had not expected to feel. 

She was so involved in her work that she lost track of the hours and was startled to hear a woman's voice greet her from the kitchen door. She straightened up and walked over to her, her hand kneading out the soreness in her back. The lady at the door beckoned her into the kitchen. ‘I’ve just put the kettle on, Missy. You look like you deserve a cup of tea. I’m Muriel, Mr. Gold’s housekeeper. I come in at two every afternoon to clean the place and get Mr. Gold’s evening meal on. You must be Miss French.’ She looked her over from her soiled knees to her blue eyes. ‘Yes, well you are lovely to look at, aren’t you?’

Belle smiled at her. Muriel looked a bit older than her employer, but probably not yet sixty. She wore her hair in a short, sharp bob-- improbably blonde-- and her makeup was a work of art. She wasn’t an attractive woman, not really-- her chin was a little too pointy, her eyes too beady and her nose looked like it had been broken once upon a time-- but she had such a cheery, pleasant expression that Belle hardly noticed her unfortunate features. 

Muriel set a cup of tea in front of Belle, making one for herself as well. She sat down and pushed a plate of biscuits towards the grubby young woman with the air of one ready to have a comfortable chat. ‘Eat up, Miss! You look like you have been working hard out there. Done a good job too, by the looks of it.’ She grinned at Belle with impossibly perfect white teeth. ‘Although, if you don’t mind, I’ll find you some shears to replace my best kitchen scissors.’

Belle laughed, ‘I don’t suppose you have a trowel to replace the silver serving spoon I have been digging with too, do you?’ 

There was no lack of conversation between the women. Belle asked about the house, how long Muriel had worked for Mr. Gold and had Muriel any family. The older lady patiently answered Belle’s questions and proudly got out pictures of her eight grandchildren to show off. 

After a while, the tea grew cold and Muriel got up to get the evening meal on. She told Belle where the gardening equipment was stored. ‘Not that I have a clue why it’s there, Mr. Gold hasn’t ever used it, that’s for sure.’ 

Belle went off to the mudroom and found the cupboard the housekeeper had indicated. Returning back through the kitchen, armed with proper tools, she smiled to see Muriel skillfully wielding a pair of meat cleavers. A thought struck her. ‘Muriel. You don’t think Mr. Gold will _mind_ me rearranging his garden do you? I didn’t think to ask before he left this morning.’

‘Him? I don’t see why he would, but then he is a funny one sometimes. If he didn’t say you couldn’t, you should be fine.’ She deftly wound a string around a joint of beef, saying ‘here, stick your finger on there, will you, dear? Thank you.’ Muriel tied off the string. ‘I’d imagine all you’d need to do is put on that lovely sweet smile of yours and he’d let you get away with murder -- probably help you too, if half of what they say about him is true, not that I believe it is.’

Belle returned to the garden thoughtfully. As the afternoon progressed, her arms grew weary and her mind restless. She heard Muriel shout a cheery goodbye from the back porch and knew that Mr. Gold would return in an hour. 

Stripping off her gloves, she reluctantly made her way into the house. She felt a glow of (slightly sweaty) satisfaction in all that she had accomplished through hard work. The bushes were trimmed, four of the flower beds dug over and weeded and the patch of thorns trying to destroy part of the garden wall had been beaten into submission. 

Belle headed up to the bathroom connected to the bedroom and filled the tub. She supposed it would only be polite _not_ to be covered in soil when welcoming Gold home from work. As she relaxed into the hot water, she was surprised to realise that she had had a nice day. If it weren’t for the ever-lurking anxiety that reared up at the thought of spending the evening alone in the company of the enigmatic Mr. Gold, she’d feel fairly relaxed. It was clear that he wanted her and if she couldn’t tell what he was thinking when he watched her, she could certainly work it out when his mouth was... _consuming, devouring, demanding_... on hers. It wasn’t just his desire that alarmed her -- she had mostly accepted that sleeping with him was part of the contract. It was being the focus of his complete and utter attention that she found overwhelming. He, by all reports, was not a man to _relax_ around-- Muriel hadn’t been joking when referring to the gossip surrounding Mr. Gold and a few ‘unsolved disappearances’ of foolhardy residents who had offended the man who owned most of Storybrooke. 

She had just changed into her clean clothes, dumping her muddy jeans down the laundry chute, when she heard a car come up the driveway. Mr. Gold had returned. Belle dashed downstairs to the kitchen to serve up the beef stew Muriel had left bubbling away on the stove. She had carefully ladled it out and was cutting up a loaf of bread when she felt strong hands on her shoulders and a warm mouth on her nape. 

Mr. Gold was home and apparently not hungry for _food_. Belle hastily dropped the knife and allowed herself to be turned around. He did not kiss her, as she expected he would- rather he just looked at her. She waited a full minute and then gently pushed him into the same chair he had sat in that morning, Belle attempted a smile as she served him his food- Gold didn’t smile back but he raised a finger to lightly trace her lips, his expression unfathomable.

As she sat down in her place, this time at a more comfortable distance from him, she wracked her brain frantically for a neutral subject. 

‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been doing some gardening today. I... didn’t think until after I’d started that you might prefer it wild.’ She fidgeted; was he going to stare darkly at her for the entire meal? Did she still have dirt on her face?

‘I said you might do as you pleased. If you want the garden redone, I’ll call a landscaper tomorrow.’ 

‘Oh! Please...’ She broke off, unwilling to ask him for anything.

‘Well?’

‘I’d really like to do it myself. I like flowers and I don’t mind the work -- it will give me something to do when you aren’t here. I won’t do anything drastic. Just tidy it up a little. Muriel said she didn’t think it would bother you.’

He looked sour. ‘Mrs. Moppet _would_ know all about things which bother me. I hope you didn’t let her talk your ear off. There’s a reason she only comes when I’m not here. The woman simply will not shut up.’

‘Oh, no! She’s nice -- she told me all about her grandchildren and the house. She’s very easy company.’

He looked genuinely bewildered and Belle found herself a little less tense. ‘Garden if it pleases you, I don’t object,’ was all he said.

Belle beamed at him and nearly laughed when he blinked at her; she noticed a tinge of colour creep into his cheeks as he hurriedly returned to his food. 

Was Mr. Gold, The Terror of the Town actually... _blushing?!_ Could it be that his reclusive nature was unfairly misinterpreted and that he wasn’t the monster everyone painted him? Belle sweetly asked him how his day had gone.

‘It went very well: two families evicted -- perhaps the next tenants will honor their agreement and actually pay the rent on time.’ He sounded gleeful.

 _Not_ misunderstood then.

After they had eaten, Belle covered her nerves by clearing the table and washing up the dishes under the watchful eye of Mr. Gold. He didn’t speak, and Belle found herself wishing that he would either start a conversation about the weather or _get on_ with doing whatever it was he wanted to do to her. At least then it’d be over with for the first time and the stress of anticipation would be over with.

She heard the squeak of his chair being pushed back on the hard kitchen floor and stiffened when he came up behind her. He took a hand towel and, turning her around, dried her soapy hands carefully. He stood too close to her, and she could feel the heat of his body. She fixed her eyes on the top button of his waistcoat.

He bent his head and dropped his mouth to the soft skin behind her ear, gauging her reaction carefully. He raised her hands up to his face and, turning them over, and rested his face in them for a moment before pressing hot kisses over her palms.

‘Won’t you say something?’ Belle ground out, the lack of words finally getting to her. 

His head shot up, his eyes startled and searching. He made a gesture with his hand, seemingly at a loss.

‘Come on, we’ll go into the living room.’ He slipped his arm around her waist and inexorably drew her along with him. 

He settled into a wingback chair by the empty hearth, propping his leg on a little footstool, all without releasing her. A sharp tug threw her balance off and she tumbled into his lap with a squeak.

In this position, she couldn’t really sit bolt upright with any dignity and so abandoned the idea as soon as it formed. She shifted in his lap, noticing he drew in a sharp hiss of breath, and settled back against his chest. Belle felt her heart thudding in her chest.

Mr. Gold’s hands seemed to be everywhere after that, strong and steady, deliberately exploring whatever skin was on display. When he ran out of the limited skin available to him, his fingers went to the buttons of her blouse and uncovered more for him to explore. Belle did not reciprocate; she folded her hands on her lap and let him do what he liked. She _tried_ to think about the lovely time she’d had in the garden that day and, if she closed her eyes, she could almost picture the areas she wanted to tackle next. All thoughts of the garden flew out of her mind when Mr. Gold pulled her mouth to his. There was something about this man; he demanded her full and absolute attention on him. He seemed content to kiss her languidly, not rushing the matter, but taking the time to taste her mouth for as long as pleased him.

A clock chimed somewhere in the house and Gold broke the kiss. She did not know him well enough to guess his thoughts, but judging by the half smile and smoothed out creases in his face, he was pleased. She felt too hot, all prickly and uncomfortable, in spite of her gaping blouse and the coolness of the room. She supposed that she really ought to demonstrate that she intended to keep her end of the deal and reached to loosen his tie. His hands grasped her wrists, preventing her, and she felt a moment of utterly irrational frustration.

His voice, when he spoke, was a low, husky _thrum_ in her ears, barely audible over her own thumping heart. ‘Let’s take this upstairs, shall we?’ She slid off his lap and waited patiently for him to collect his cane and stand. Once up, he took her hand in his and led her up to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I'm glad that chapter is over, I found it a tricky one. The following chapters were much easier to write, and I think, easier to read. So stick with me! 
> 
> *drops to knees*
> 
> You see that little box down there? Let me know your opinions! It doesn't have to be long, you just can leave a smiley face if you like, I'm very easily pleased. :)


	5. Double Bluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Gold does some plotting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to LadyofJest for beta-ing this for me.

Gold dropped his head into his hands; he was going mad, and not in a nice, familiar psychotic way either. He, Montgomery Gold, was actually counting the hours till he could reasonably leave the office and get home to his woman. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just desire that had shot his concentration to pieces -- that would be understandable. It was the fact that he was fantasizing about eating a meal with Belle, reading a book with her curled up next to him -- hearing her sweet voice telling him what she had done with her day and gently asking about his. 

Gentle. If there was one world to properly describe Belle French, it would be gentle. Gentle smiles, gentle voice and sometimes -- if he was very lucky, gentle touches. It surprised him that he didn’t find her insipid: every other impossibly good person made him irrationally angry, but not little Belle French. Gold found himself bending over backwards to make her smile at him. He’d come home one day bearing a new pair of shears for the garden, having noticed that the old ones she’d found left red blisters on her beautiful skin. She’d thanked him prettily, commenting how thoughtful he was. She hadn’t minded at all when he’d snarled a comment about protecting his investment, even laughing lightly at him. The first time he had made her laugh properly, he’d closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him. Her occasionally dark sense of humour had been something of a shock.

She had been listening to the news on the radio whilst flitting about the living room with a duster, and he’d been greedily watching her every move. Belle had occasionally stopped to give her full concentration to an article and Gold had been fighting the urge to start a conversation with an inanity to get her attention on _him_ , which is where it ought to always be. Well, why not? She practically belonged to him, after all, at least for the next seven months-- and he was plotting to extend that anyhow. He was about to open his mouth to remark on the weather of all things, when she shook her head sadly, murmuring ‘oh, how sad.’ 

He seized on it. ‘What is it?’

She started slightly, as though having _forgotten_ he was in the room with her. He scowled and she hurried to answer.

‘A family in Florida -- the state is intervening to take the nine children away from the mother -- they are saying that she can’t afford to keep them properly, and she’s pregnant again. That poor lady.’

‘She could always sell the baby.’ He said off hand, not really paying much heed to his words, just saying something to get her to speak again.

‘What?!’ Belle looked outraged. ‘ How can you say that? That is just wrong! You can’t put a price on human life!’

 _Then_ he started to pay attention to the conversation; she did look lovely in a snit. He wondered if he could push her into losing her temper altogether, just out of curiosity -- she was so tranquil usually, and the most agitated he’d ever seen her was the first time she entered his office.

‘Of course you can,’ he said lazily, watching her under hooded lids. ‘It’s very straightforward. Simple mathematics; the collective price you’d get for the individual organs if you sold them separately minus the costs of proper storage, harvesting and professional transportation.’ He watched her stiffen up, lips pursed, and admired the incensed flash of her eyes. Just a little more ought to do it. ‘Selling a baby alive and whole seems a more cost effective way of doing it, less messy, and the person in question doesn’t suffer the unpleasant side effects of having body parts removed.’ He sat back to enjoy the show. To his utter astonishment, she didn’t reach for the nearest ornament to throw at his head -- she gasped and spluttered and then let out peal after peal of trilling, delicious giggles. He stared at her as she weakly lowered herself on the nearest chair, helpless with laughter. 

‘Unpleasant side effects?’ She choked out, ‘like death?’

He couldn’t help it. He grinned at her and let out a short giggle of his own. ‘Do you not consider death to be unpleasant, Miss French?’ He enquired.

She gurgled. ‘I suppose if you meet death after being cut up for the sake of money, it would be unpleasant and,’ she sobered, ‘a little ignominious.’

‘Not afraid of death, my pet?’ 

She considered her answer carefully. ‘I suppose I don’t feel like it will ever come to me. It feels like I have lived my whole life in Storybrooke and that it will go on like this forever.’ She looked a little embarrassed that she had shared such a private thought with Mr. Gold, of all people, and quickly picked up the duster.

Gold’s thoughts, as he replayed her laughter in his mind over and over again, were twofold. First, he would happily live forever if he could do so in the company of the young woman in front of him. His second thought shocked through him, half lifting him from his chair with its power. He, Montgomery Gold, was completely and utterly in love with Belle French and had been since he first laid eyes on her.

He did what any other coward would do in his situation: he fled, snapping at the bewildered girl that he’d be in his lab and she wasn’t to pester him. He poured over his potions for the rest of the day, immersing himself in their mysteries, only seeing Belle at bedtime when he possessed himself of her body with a thoroughness that left them both sated and breathless. 

He had forced himself to come to terms with it in a few days; he couldn’t bear to stay away from her for long. He supposed he was more human than the people of Storybrooke painted him; after being accused of heartlessness for decades, he’d almost come to believe it himself. He was still Gold though, and spent a few productive hours deciding how to get what he wanted from her without giving her the advantage of his love to hold over him. He knew she was innately kind, but what woman in existence didn’t relish their power over a man deeply in love? He knew what he’d do if the situation were reversed: he’d get revenge for being forced into signing that Faustian contract. He wanted her to stay with him, with or without a piece of paper and a lack of other options to tell her she must. Gold thought about the best way to accomplish this. He could make her fall in love with him in the next seven months, or-- if that failed-- he could put a baby in her belly and buy himself more time that way. 

That set his thoughts down a different track. He hadn’t checked that she was using contraceptives; he’d written it into the contract but simply trusted her to take care of it. How uncharacteristically naive of him. Gold knew he’d just have to find out what she used and work out how to sabotage it in case it became necessary.

It occurred to him that he hadn’t got a clue what she thought about him. Her attitude was invariably courteous, and she was friendly-- sometimes warm even, but that was just how Belle was. There was no indication, in anything that she said or did, that she cared for him even a little bit. She was polite, but aloof. He was always ‘Mr. Gold’ or ‘Sir,’ apart from one night when he had proudly extracted a heaving, gasping ‘Montgomery!’ from her lips. 

The days went on, more pleasantly than he could ever remember. He spent less and less time at work, finding it less satisfying than spending time with Belle. She whiled away most of the summer in his garden and, by the time the leaves started to turn a glorious red (Belle had pointed that out, he’d never cared to look before), she had single-handedly cleared the whole garden. They could even venture into the woods through the door in the garden wall, which he’d forgotten existed. They went for rambling walks in the leafy forest-- his leg always ached for days afterwards but she had wanted to go and he had followed, enchanted by her enthusiasm. They discovered a curious well together, not far from the cabin he kept in the woods (for reasons that Belle would probably disapprove of), and he was absolutely fascinated to find strange, runic symbols on the circle of stones about the base. 

By the time five months had passed, Mr.Gold had taken to arriving home half an hour early, this habit having emerged the first time he came back at half past five to discover Belle unwinding in the bathtub. He had stood, shamelessly transfixed, in the doorway; when she _finally_ noticed him there she had just-- oh joy-- stood up to climb out and, despite the raging lust consuming him, Gold was very amused to see just how far down her blushes went.

One Thursday afternoon saw him hurrying up the front steps of his house, trying very hard not to dwell on that last, rather pleasurable encounter. He was surprised (and displeased) to discover Mrs. Muriel Multiloquent Moppet still in his house, and worse-- trying to comfort an obviously distressed Belle.

They both looked up when he walked into the room. Mrs. Moppet even stopped talking for a moment, while Belle turned away to wipe her eyes. He strode forward into the room and handed her his handkerchief, his eyes narrowed at the top of her head. He did not do his housekeeper the courtesy of looking at her; his attention was entirely on Belle. Gold stretched out his cane to point at the doorway and confined himself to an emphatic ‘out.’ To her credit, Muriel had enough courage to give Belle’s shoulder a final pat before scurrying out the door. 

Mr. Gold sat down and took her hand. ‘Tell me.’ _I’ll fix it._

She sniffed and tried on a smile. ‘You’re home early, Mr. Gold. We weren’t expecting you.’ She did not meet his eyes and it stung. She blew her nose and spoke again. ‘I went into town today, just to pay a visit to Granny’s and spend some time with Ruby and Mary Margaret.’ 

Gold gestured impatiently. He knew that was what she did on Thursdays, he’d had Fletcher follow her everywhere she went. The man had faithfully reported to him every day, privately -- Gold thought that Fletcher was a little too approving of little Miss French. 

‘Belle...’ He growled, wanting her to get on with it.

‘I had an argument with the Mayor,’ she blurted. Now, that was a surprise. Regina Mills was a colossal bitch, of course, but usually favoured the false sweetness method of getting her own way and Belle simply wasn’t an argumentative woman. ‘She came up to me in the cafe, while Ruby and Mary Margaret were across the road looking at a dress. She started off very friendly, asking me if I liked living here and stuff like that. Then she asked me for a favour.’ Belle broke off, looking distressed. 

‘She wanted me to _steal from you_ , sir. Said she’d left a box behind last time she was here -- described it and everything. She must have been lying because she said you didn’t need to know she wanted it or that I’d handed it over. She said she’d settle my father’s debt herself if I just did this one thing for her.’ She bit her lip. Gold’s mind was working rapidly. He kissed the top of her head; it seemed to comfort her.

‘Of course, I told her that I’d already sorted it out with you and that I wasn’t a thief, thank you very much. That’s when she got very unpleasant,’ Belle said quietly. ‘The word ‘whore’ wouldn’t have hurt so much if she wasn’t so close to the truth.’

Gold, who had begun pacing the length of the kitchen, grasping his cane tightly, turned at this in astonishment. ‘You are not!’ he snapped. He tipped her chin up to look at him. ‘It isn’t like that at all. _You_ are everything that is good and honourable.’ Belle gaped at him and he smiled nastily. ‘I, on the other hand... am not, as the lady mayoress will discover tomorrow morning.’ He kissed her forehead and made her stay seated so he could serve her some of Muriel’s lasagna-- his housekeeper irritated him immensely, but was admittedly an adequate cook.

Gold took care of Belle all that evening, tempting her out for a walk in the woods and afterwards tucking her up in bed with a book and another kiss. He even, rather selflessly he thought, refrained from making love to her that night, instead slipping out of the room to head up to the lab.

Once up the stairs, in his sanctuary, he opened a locked closet. Stuffed in the bottom was Regina Mills’ carved wooden box that apparently, he smirked, was just precious enough for her to want back.

_Pity._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you commenters, I do enjoy reading your thoughts and opinions on what I have written. 
> 
> Oh I am having so much _fun!_ Why didn't I do this sooner? Its addictive! :)


	6. Joker in the pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Gold conducts an experiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm not trying to take over the site, but I thought I'd squeeze this chapter in early as I'm going on my hols next week and wont have internet access for an entire. seven. days.
> 
> Thank you to LadyofJest once again for the brilliant job she does of beta-ing.

Mayor Mills had her feet propped up on her desk and was sipping from a cup of coffee when Gold entered her office without so much as a perfunctory knock. She spluttered in outrage and whipped her feet off the desk, but not before Mr. Gold would have gotten an eyeful of leg that had been uncovered by a ridden-up skirt. She would have been offended to know that he wasn’t even remotely interested in the sight. 

‘Gold. What do you think you are doing, barging into my office? Get out before I call security and have you _thrown_ out.’

Gold placed a hand on his heart and feigned deep hurt. ‘Now now, Madam _Mayoress_ , anyone would think you didn’t want to see me... and I know you do.’ He always addressed her as Mayoress, rather than Mayor, knowing very well that it infuriated her; especially when accompanied by the faintest hint of condescension. ‘Besides, I’ve brought you a gift.’ He held out an ornately wrapped present. A large gold bow nodded at her as he dropped it on her desk. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ She didn’t move. He leant forwards, palms flat on the grey marble surface. ‘Open it.’ hissed Gold.

She sprung at the present and he smiled pleasantly. As she tore the paper off as fast as possible, she felt a moment of relief when she saw her carved box and a moment's panic when upon lifting the lid she found it empty. _It wasn’t there!_ She glared at Gold. He smiled again and and she felt loathing choke her. She reached for the phone, only to be stopped by the gold head of an ebony cane that smacked down on her wrist. 

‘Ah ah! _No_ ,’ he said mildly, and she wrenched her hand back from the phone as if it had been burned. 

‘Gold -- get out, or I’ll scream for help.’ The faintest hint of alarm was creeping into her voice and Mr. Gold perched on the edge of her desk, idly picking up a picture frame. ‘No, you will not,’ he said deliberately. ‘Is this your boy? My my, what a handsome young fellow-- he doesn’t look anything like you.’ He replaced it carefully.

Angry people are rarely wise. ‘Has your little slut been telling you sob stories about the big mean old Mayor who made her cry? Pathetic,’ she spat.

Gold stilled and met Regina’s eyes. She shrank back. ‘Stand up, Mayoress.’ She obeyed. ‘Now, sit down.’ Yet again, her body could not oblige him fast enough. ‘Interesting. If only you had always been this obliging, my dear, we might have gotten along much better.’ His pleasant manner shifted in an instant and she found the metal of his walking stick pressed firmly against her windpipe. He brought his face up very close to her, a terrifying parody of intimacy. ‘Do not approach Miss French again or you will find out firsthand just how much _power_ I wield in this town.’ 

He backed away, satisfied that his point had been made, and gave a theatrical bow before heading to the door. Regina was left clutching her throat and trying to breathe; he hadn’t been gentle. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Mills. See you again soon, dearie.’ Gold left the room as swiftly as he had entered it, glee bubbling up inside him and escaping in a high pitched giggle that made the Mayor’s assistant drop his coffee cup in alarm. Today was going to be good day.

Until a year ago, Regina Mills had been fairly equal to Mr. Gold in terms of power and influence, primarily because she had the town sheriff in her pocket... and bed. She had been the only person in town to rival Gold for control, and had thwarted him at every possible opportunity. Naturally, Gold could not let this state of affairs continue uncontested. No one quite knew _how_ he had done it, but Sheriff Graham had been unceremoniously replaced one fine day in October. It had not taken the general populace long to realise that Sheriff Earp was as much a puppet for Montgomery Gold as Graham had been for Regina Mills.

The Mayor had been furious and, to taunt her, Gold had sent Fletcher to break into her house. His instructions were to steal something that would obviously be missed. The shaft had struck its mark. Regina had stormed round to Mr. Gold’s house with the Sheriff and demanded that the place be searched. Gold, with as much infuriating superiority as he could muster, had pressed charges against Regina for slandering his good name and had made sure the charges stuck. He told her never to darken his door again, and she hadn’t. In fact, she had been curiously docile since that tussle, and he hadn’t thought anything of it-- just attributing the anomaly to yet another of the Mayor’s tiresome plots.

When Belle told him of her encounter with Regina, more questions were raised. Why had she not come herself- she wasn’t above a spot of burglary, why the need to keep him in the dark about her hopeful repossession of the box? It had perplexed him, until he had forced the catch to find a wickedly sharp dagger...with ‘The Queen’ etched into the blade. Even then, he had stared at it, confused-- wondering if it was some strange kink of hers... until he lifted the blade from the box and felt the power of it warming in his hands.

He had gone to her office for several reasons. Firstly, he had gone to test a wild, impossible theory that had proven correct. Secondly, he had gone to cow her into staying as far away from his woman as possible and, thirdly, he had gone for his own entertainment; it wasn’t everyday that he got to render a worthy opponent utterly useless.

Gold found himself in the mood for indulgence, so stepped into a ladies clothing store to order a dozen dresses for Belle. He liked to see her in a dress and twelve seemed as good a number as any, _if_ he could persuade her to take them. She was obstinately reluctant to take anything from him that wasn’t absolutely necessary. She would have worn the two pairs of jeans she owned until they fell apart rather than ask him for anything. He’d had to bully her into the pile of clothes he’d ordered her. ‘I don’t care to be seen with a woman that looks like a vagrant.’ Gold had leaned in close. ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ he said with a velvety purr. ‘If you willingly change into these beautiful new clothes I have provided, I will refrain from buying you any more for a month.’ 

‘What kind of a deal is that?’

‘One skewed in my favour, dearie.’

‘No deal! I don’t _need_ them, you’ve already wasted plenty of your money on me and Dad.’

‘Then, my pet, you can oblige me-- can’t you? If that is too much to ask, I will offer you a new deal. Put them on yourself, or I shall.’

Belle had whipped the designer-labelled bags out of his hand and marched up the stairs quickly.

By the time she had come downstairs in clothes that were very nearly worthy of her, Gold had braced himself for sullen silence. She surprised him yet again and approached him with a repentant smile.

‘I’m sorry I was stubborn. Thank you for the clothes-- they _are_ lovely.’ She quickly stood on the tiptoes of her new shoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek in thanks. 

He graciously nodded his head, once again caught off guard by her ability to make his heart leap about in his chest; clearly, it was not his to command anymore and he, unable to resist, bowed over her hand-- wanting to press it fervently to his lips and whisper that he adored her. 

Mr. Gold felt smug that he could, and did, take better care of Belle than her useless father had. With him, she ate three square meals a day-- he had discovered early on that she was used to getting by with only one and had, even then, wanted to beat Moe French senseless.

He had also discovered, more recently, the reason for the long silvery scar that stretched across her lower abdomen. It had taken him careful examination of her body in broad daylight to see it, since her skin was pale enough that it barely showed. He’d asked her how she’d managed to get injured there of all places and had been astounded when she’d given her answer.

‘Oh, that-- I’m surprised you noticed it. The hospital sterilized asylum patients as a matter of olicy. I don’t remember it, of course; actually I can’t remember much at all about those years.’  
.  
‘ _What?_ ’

‘You know, it’s where they operate to stop you ever having a ba--’

‘ _I know what it means!_ ’ Gold had thundered. 

She had visibly quaked-- for the first time ever-- at the expression on his face and he had dropped the subject, intent on soothing her back into his embrace. 

He arrived back at the house, opting to take the afternoon off. It’d make Regina nervous if he was noticeably absent from his office. Fletcher, whom he had called to collect his purchases from the store, pulled into the driveway as he was ascending the steps.

Belle was polishing the dining table, humming a cheery tune, and he scowled. 

‘Precisely _what_ do you think I employ Mrs. Moppet for, my dear?’

Belle smiled at him. ‘I don’t mind doing housework, Mr. Gold. Muriel is getting dinner on. We are   
having roast lamb today!’ She was so easily pleased; he levelled a glare at her as she turned back to the rag in her hand and a tub of beeswax. She looked past him. ‘Oh, hello, Mr. Fletcher! Have you been shopping?’

Fletcher looked irritatingly bashful-- as he always did in front of the lovely young woman. She had chipped away at his tough bodyguard persona with small kindnesses, and turned him into a pathetic, slobbering puppy at her feet. Belle rushed to help the man with the boxes, clearly more than willing to abandon her polishing for _him_.

Gold waved his stick towards the table. ‘Just put them there, Fletchy, and get back to work.’ Gold knew he was being a jealous fool, but he sneered at the burly man anyway.

‘Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. Would you like to have a cup of tea with us?’ Belle asked, gently; she looked genuinely hopeful for his company. Fletcher, who had a healthy sense of self-preservation, glanced quickly at the black look on Gold’s face and shook his head. 

‘Not today, thank you, Miss Belle. Maybe some other time. I have lots to do. Good day, Ma’am, Mr. Gold.’

As soon as he had left the room, Gold took Belle by the shoulders and sneered. ‘I do _not_ have tea with my paid subordinates, my dear.’ 

Belle’s eyes flashed. ‘I will bring you your tea to enjoy on your own then, _sir_.’ 

‘Don’t be ridiculous, pet. You will sit next to me and have a cup of your own, as always.’

‘You do not have tea with your paid subordinates, Mr. Gold. You have _bought_ me for an entire year; I’ll take my tea in the kitchen with the other _help_.’

‘Are you seriously opting to argue with me, Belle?’ He saw her look uncertain for a moment and was pleased that she saw her danger. He _felt_ dangerous today: he had bested Regina with a power that he did not understand, and he was certainly not going to tolerate outright defiance from a little girl who had more courage than sense. 

Belle _was_ brave though. ‘My apologies, Mr. Gold,’ she said clearly. ‘I was attempting to keep you from hypocrisy. I will just fetch the tea things.’ 

With that, she swept from the room with the dignity of a queen and all Gold could think was that he’d rather like to pay her homage.

When she returned, her expression was utterly frigid and he felt his temper rising again. So, she was going to be an ice queen, was she? He’d soon melt her.

Gold waited for her to set his teacup down on a little table next to his chair before seizing her wrist, pulling her into his lap as he had the first evening they had spent together. She sat stiffly but quietly, so he used his hands to coax her body into molding against his. 

Gold took a sip of his tea and swallowed the scalding liquid, leant back in his chair and watched Belle’s face. Her eyes were on the boxes sitting on the table: the expression in them was akin to guilt. 

Gold softly kissed the sensitive skin behind her ear with his hot mouth and whispered, ‘You are not the same as Fletcher and Mrs. Moppet. You are my companion, my pet. If I wish to spoil the woman I keep in my bed when she pleases me, then I will.’

‘Am I truly like a pet, an animal to you then?’ She sounded strained. 

Gold ran his hands down her spine and rested them at her hips. ‘No, my dear. Certainly not an animal.’ _A queen or an Empress perhaps._ He did not speak the words that sprung into his mind; it was better that she did not know how his heart had betrayed him by defecting to her. ‘A pet human,’ he held her firmly when she angrily tried to spring off his lap, and kissed her eyelids when her tears welled under them. ‘My pet. Mine to feed, to clothe, to protect. Mine to spoil when you are good and to correct when you are not.’ He saw that she looked distressed and nuzzled his face into the base of her throat. She relaxed a little and leant into him. ‘Come, my dear, it is not such a bad bargain. It is not, after all, forever.’

________________________________

Regina Mills stood by the window of her office, looking blindly out at the people below. Purple bruising spread across her neck and would turn to black in a day or two. It hurt her to swallow, but it hurt her pride even more to acknowledge how terrified she had been of Gold. He had backed her into a corner that she could not see a way out from.

Unfortunately for Gold, it was well known that a cornered she-wolf was the most dangerous sort of all, as they are the ones that lash out to cause the most hurt-- regardless of the consequences.

Regina bared her teeth. Now _where_ could she hit Montgomery Gold where it would hurt him the most?

A feral grin twisted her face into something hideous and deadly. The silly, foolish, naive little man had left a _glaring_ loophole.

Gold wouldn’t know what had hit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh! Mr. Gold has annoyed Regina. *hides*
> 
> Thank you to those of you who comment, its such an encouragement to me. :)


	7. Collusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle celebrates a birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Yay. I am sorry about the wait for this chapter, I rather thought you might prefer to have it now than a week ago and be left hanging for seven days. 
> 
> I wonder if you will agree with me...
> 
> :) 
> 
> Once again, my grateful thanks go to LadyofJest for catching my sloppy British slip ups and returning this tale to well punctuated American!

Belle had found life to be good with Mr. Gold. He was not, perhaps, an easy man to live with but he was certainly less difficult than her father had been. As time went on, she found that she had plenty to be grateful for.

Living with Mr. Gold, she did not have to worry about money all the time, did not have to work long, tiring hours at the supermarket and, more importantly than anything-- she actually had friends.

In her life with the florist, she hadn’t had time to meet people and get to know them properly; she had always been working. With Mr. Gold, she could do whatever she liked, as long as she was home by six o’clock to eat with him. Once, she had been delayed in town and had run the whole way home, reaching the front door just as Mr. Gold was just coming up the steps.

‘Cutting it a bit fine, Miss French?’

She’d smiled at him, flustered and out of breath. ‘I’m sorry! I lost track of time; I ran all the way home.’

‘All the way? I admire your dedication, my dear. Shall we actually go inside or are we spending the evening on the front steps?’ 

That had been the end of it, and he’d slipped an arm around her waist, guiding her into the house. She always felt awful when she fell short of the few absolutes that Mr. Gold actually set, but he was very polite about it, waving off her apologies and changing the subject.

She spent every Thursday in town; it was a long walk, but she didn’t mind. Her destination was Granny’s cafe. Belle would have walked twice the distance if it meant spending a few hours in the easy company of women, _friends_ , who had grown to genuinely care for her and who demanded nothing in return. She had found a like-minded soul in the gentle Mary Margaret, who likewise had a lurking sadness lingering beneath the cheerful face she showed the world. Ruby, who she loved dearly, seemed afraid of nothing-- even the opinions of the rest of the world.She taught Belle to hold her head high around the gossipers of Storybrook who barely stopped shy of actually pointing at her.

‘Thing is, honey, they can’t even make up their own minds about whether they feel really sorry for you or if they hate your guts for sleeping with the enemy. Haven’t learned to mind their own business.’ Ruby made a low noise in the back of her throat and scowled. ‘Idiots.’ 

She always gave Belle extra chocolate sauce on the ice cream she ordered and Belle always left her a good tip. Mr. Gold put a roll of bills in her purse before he left the house on a Thursday morning. She _hated_ the sight of them -- it made her feel cheap, like she was getting herself even further into debt every time he made her take it, but he always won. He hadn’t cancelled Moe’s debt to hear her argue with him, after all.

Belle adored Granny’s no-nonsense attitude toward life. She was old enough, she said, to not need to pass judgement on the lives of youngsters; however, she would occasionally take exception at the length of Ruby’s skirts, and the two women would snarl at each other for a while. Belle murmured to Mary Margaret that she thought they rather enjoyed it. 

The day of Belle’s birthday was a Tuesday: Mr. Gold presented her with the keys to an adorable pale blue convertible, Muriel baked her a cake and Fletcher presented her with a large bouquet from Game of Thorns. Belle had to struggle to smile at the flowers but did anyway, because Fletcher had _meant_ well. Her Father sent her nothing, and she hadn’t expected anything, of course-- she’d not heard a word from him in the whole time she’d been living with Gold.

On Thursday, Belle proudly drove into town in the morning and parked around the corner from Granny’s. She had called her friends to come and see her beautiful new car, which they cooed admiringly over before dragging her back inside to enjoy the biggest ice cream sundae that a birthday girl could possibly eat. 

She had a wonderful time that day, all carefree giggles and lovely friends around her. It was like celebrating her birthday twice. The best she’d ever had. 

As she walked out to the car, Mary Margaret walking alongside her on the way back to her own apartment, she saw the familiar figure of her father walking away down the street. She did not call out to him; she just stared after him, and Mary Margaret put her arms around Belle in silent sympathy. 

‘It doesn’t matter,’ was all Belle managed to say.

She waved a cheery goodbye from the wheel of her car and set off. She was early leaving the cafe, wanting to take the car for a quick spin around the country roads around Storybrooke. As Belle was headed to the sign that said _‘you are now leaving Storybrooke’_ a deer ran into the road and she quickly hit the brakes as hard as she could. 

_Nothing._

They did not respond. She swerved to the right and heard the loud bang of her tyre separating from the car.

Time paused for a silent, breathless moment in which Belle saw the deer run off in the opposite direction and found it in herself to be glad. Then her heart lurched as the moments sped up to twice usual speed and she clearly heard the car squeal from the road, the crack of the tree splintering as it absorbed the impact of the vehicle and then the thud of her body as it hit the hard road of the concrete. She did not even scream when she felt her ribs shatter and break.

Belle’s last thought, before giving herself over to unconsciousness, was that she wished that she could see Mr. Gold once more. Then darkness clouded the edges of her vision and she fell into the agonizing blackness.

_____________________________________

Fletcher burst into Mr. Gold’s office without knocking. He did not slow to a walk when he saw the bosses eyebrows twitch together. Gold knew Fletcher well enough to know that something was seriously wrong if the usually cautious man had forgotten to be afraid of him.

‘Well, what is it?’ He inquired, with his usual bored insouciance. 

Fletcher didn’t waste time. ‘Miss Belle, sir. An accident.’ Gold shot out of his chair. ‘She was found on the road leading out of town, the car is completely wrecked, the nuns found her and she’s been rushed to the hospital. It looks bad. Really bad.’

Gold seized his cane and walked as fast as he could towards the door. Fletcher fell into step beside him. 

‘What happened?’ Gold said it tightly, but he knew Fletcher probably heard the quiver in his voice.

‘We aren’t sure, sir. The police are there at the moment. The Sheriff thinks something on the car might have been fiddled with.’

‘How long ago did it happen?’

‘The sheriff said she might have been lying there about an hour, sir. The ambulance was quick. She was alive when they got her to the emergency room. She’s in intensive care.’

Gold nodded once and climbed into the car. 

‘I want you to go and see the man at the car garage. Find out about him. Arrange for someone to follow the Mayor-- she isn’t to interfere with Miss French’s care at the hospital. You know she practically owns the place.’ 

‘Yes sir,’ was all Fletcher said.

‘Her friends. You know who they are? Have someone call them.’ 

‘Will do, Mr. Gold.’

Gold did not speak for the rest of the short journey and, when they arrived at the hospital, he waved Fletcher away and headed grimly for the front desk. He had a little difficulty with the receptionist, who seemed adamant that she stick to hospital policy. 

‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Gold, but you aren’t a spouse of relative so I can’t let you in to see her. Hospital rules are there to protect Miss French, I’m sure you understand.’

The glare he sent her corrected her on his level of understanding. ‘You may write me down as her _very_ significant other, Mrs. Hubbard. Incidentally, how is your husband enjoying working for me?’

She let him through after that, which was fortunate for her as Mr. Gold was about as close to blind panic as he had ever been. 

When he entered the room that Belle had been assigned, he grasped the door frame for support. 

His beauty was broken. A team of doctors hovered around the motionless figure on the bed, tubes stuck into her everywhere. There was hardly a part of her left uncovered by casts or bandages. Her face, which he could just about see, was still covered in blood and her neck jutted out at a strange angle.

He sank into a chair, staring at her dumbly. He heard the erratic bleeping of the heart monitor and knew that this was not good. 

Mr. Gold, the most feared figure in Storybrooke, felt utterly powerless and weak. He stared at Belle as if he could make her better by the sheer force of his will alone. What wouldn’t he give for her to jump up and smile brightly at him? The one person in the world who had touched his heart without even trying to, and he’d never even told her that he adored her. The very reason she stayed with him -- to pay back his money -- was utterly pointless because all of it, every last thing that he owned, was hers anyway. If she woke up, he’d beg and plead with her to take pity on him and try to love him as much as he loved her.

The doctor approached him. ‘Mr. Gold. Would you like to wait outside, sir? We have to sort Miss French’s neck out and it’s not going to be pretty. She’s got enough drugs in her that she can’t possibly feel pain, but you really ought not be here to see it.’

Gold dimly understood that the doctor was trying to spare him from witnessing his darling’s death if anything went wrong and he wanted to be sick. The doctor ushered him outside and, glancing at his face, thrust a pink plastic bowl into his hands. 

Gold did not know how long he sat there in that awful chair that made his leg ache. He thought about how happy and beautiful Belle had looked when he left her for work that morning. She had chattered away that she was going to drive into town to see her friends, beaming at him when he’d sternly told her to drive carefully.

He _hated_ that car. He’d chosen it because it matched her eyes-- he’d driven the car garage mad by his insistence that it be the exact same shade. If there was anything left, he would smash it to smithereens and never let her drive anywhere ever again.

The doctor came out looking solemn and Gold hurled the contents of his stomach into the paper bowl. He saw pity on the man’s face and he snarled.

‘Well?’

‘Miss French is in a very serious condition. We have done everything we can, sir. Her injuries are extensive and it is impossible to gauge the damage to her brain at present. _If_ she lives, she may be severely brain damaged. It may be that her father decides it will be kinder to take her off life support.’

‘Her father? Moe French will make no such decision.’ Gold whipped out his phone. ‘Fletcher, get me the correct papers to file for power of attorney over Miss French. I want them on the judges  
desk by this evening. Moe French is an unfit parent. That ought to speed things up.’ He turned to the doctor. ‘You will save that young woman. You will drag in the best doctors from the world over to Storybrook if necessary, but you _will_ save her.’ 

The doctor looked at him sadly. ‘Ah sir! I don’t have the power over life or death. If I did... I’m sorry, we will of course do all we can. At the moment, she is not in pain and her heart rate is as steady as I would expect it to be. It might be best if you went home for now. I will arrange for someone to call you if there is any change. We weren’t able to contact her father, so we will call you instead.’ 

Gold nodded, at a loss for words. He made his way out of the hospital and his cell phone beeped. 

‘Yes?’

‘Sir, I’ve been talking to the Sheriff. The car was definitely tampered with. It’s now an attempted murder investigation. I spoke to the car guy, I think he’s clean. The Mayor has been poking her nose in asking the sheriff questions about suspects, I think she might be involved-- Moe French hasn’t been seen in town since this afternoon’

‘Find him. I’m off to have a word with Regina.’

When he arrived at her office, the Mayor was just about to leave. She smiled nastily at his pallor. 

‘Why, Mr. Gold, what an unexpected surprise. I’d have expected you’d be maintaining a vigil. So sorry to hear about the _tragedy_ of that poor young girl’s death. What a _cruel_ way to go.’ She was dripping insincerity and glee. It was almost as if she took personal pride in his pain. He had ordered her to stay away from her though. He knew that the dagger had some strange compulsion over her-- he didn’t know _why_ but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t wield any power he could right now.

‘Regina. Speak the truth. Are you responsible for that car accident?’

She hadn’t expected such a direct question and he saw her rack her brain to answer honestly without signing her death warrant. 

‘You told me not to go near her!’

Gold was a predator and did not hesitate. ‘You are prevaricating. Tell me the truth!’ He raised his voice to a volume not often heard from him; usually menace was more communicable in his softer tones, but he was willing to experiment.

‘I may have indirectly given someone else the idea,’ said Regina, as nonchalantly as possible with a worthy enemy looming over her, shredding her self-will.

‘Who? What did you say?’ His eyes bored into hers.

‘Moe French was after money. I told him that he’d be able to collect the insurance payoff if his daughter suffered a fatal tragedy. How he did it was his affair.’ 

Gold seized Regina by the throat for the second time in as many weeks.’You are going to come with me now. You will write a note to say you are out of town for the foreseeable future, and leave it on your desk. You will walk out of the building with a smile on your face. Behave normally. You will wave goodbye to me in the carpark and you will drive to my cabin in the woods. You will wait there until I arrive. Sit on a stool. Touch nothing.’ He released her throat, seeing the glazed look in her eyes that he was learning meant the power was exerting itself over her. He watched her dive for a piece of paper to write on. ‘Regina.’ Her eyes flew to his. ‘You had better hope desperately that Belle French does not die of her injuries. If she does, your death will reflect every single moment of pain that you have caused her. I will not make it quick, nor will I show any mercy simply because you are a woman.’

Her eyes widened and he saw fear in them. He picked up his cell phone. ‘Fletcher. When you find French, bring him to the cabin. _Get the kit._ ’ No sooner had he ended the conversation with Fletcher than his mobile beeped at him again. 

It was a woman from the hospital; Belle French’s heart had stopped beating.

She was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ducks* 
> 
> I'm sorry! I'll fix it!
> 
> Feel free to lob things at me in the little comment box below. :)


	8. Clubs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Gold seeks revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter contains violence. If you think this is likely to upset you, click the end notes link and you will see the important plot points listed, without your sensibilities becoming unnecessarily overwrought. I have been saying all along that Mr. Gold is not a nice man and he’s been having a very, very, bad day.**
> 
>  
> 
> My thanks once again go to LadyofJest for her invaluable aid.
> 
> Shall we get on with it then? I said I'd fix things, but a few more things get broken first.

Mr. Gold’s log cabin was nestled deep in the woods, as perfectly secluded as such a reclusive man could ever wish for. It had been the setting for some of Gold’s more illegal goings-on, and over the years the shuttered windows had concealed many secrets.

Gold arrived at the cabin just as Fletcher was bundling the fearful Moe French through the door with one hand. In his other hand, he swung a small black doctor's bag which he handed over to Mr. Gold with a grim nod.

Fletcher took one look at Gold’s face and idiotically blurted out the first words that entered his head.

‘Please tell me she’s not...’

Gold turned his gaze to his employee, who looked into eyes which had so recently rested on a petite, blue-eyed angel with such surprising softness but were now as hard as agates. He knew that he must look utterly empty and Gold wondered distantly if the burly man pitied him. Perhaps not, Fletchers eyes were wide and reflected a small measure of the agony he felt.

‘ _Dead._ Yes. A brief flicker of light, amidst an ocean of darkness, snuffed out in a single moment.’ He said it quietly, concisely and without so much as a quiver in his voice, but he impatiently noticed Fletcher’s eyes prickle with unshed tears. ‘To business, Fletcher. Moe French and Regina Mills have taken something of mine and payment must be rendered.’

‘Sir?’

‘Oh, do keep up, Fletchy! The Mayoress conspired with French to cause the crash that killed _her_. I shall be dealing out justice this evening-- a new experience for me but I daresay I’ll get the hang of it.’ He raised up his cane and gave a sharp prod between Moe’s shoulder blades, and the older man, wrists bound behind his back, stumbled into the cabin. It was the work of a moment to tie him to the waiting chair. 

Mayor Mills sat very still on a wooden stool next to Moe; she looked strained and she clearly wanted very much to run far away as fast as possible. Moe, who must have had a very good idea of what was going to happen, probably wondered why she didn’t at least try. 

Gold waved Fletcher away from his post at the door and told him to make himself comfortable. ‘You may be here for a few days, after all, and Madam Mills will not be going anywhere,’ he said with no small amount of satisfaction. 

Gold went to a cupboard and poured himself a strong drink. ‘Mr. French,’ he said, conversationally. ‘You’re a betting man. I’ll make a wager with you. I bet that, by the time I am done with you, you are going to be begging me to let you end your own life. I’d even bet that you will regret that you ever lived in the first place. Would you like to take the bet?’ Mr. Gold sipped casually at the fiery whiskey before setting it down. He didn’t want to be drunk, he didn’t need the liquid courage to get him through what must be done. He would _savour_ this.

French dumbly shook his head, eyes on Mr. Gold’s cane which dangled loosely in his other hand. Moe glanced at the huge man in the corner, Gold smirked at the thought process clearly flitting across the man’s face. Fletcher wouldn’t help him.

Gold told him that his daughter’s injuries were probably fatal; that the Sheriff had left him a message on his answering machine. He leant in close to the pathetic little fool tied to the chair.

‘Did you listen to it, French? Hmmm? Or were you too _cowardly_ to want to hear the results of your work? Do you think he heard it Fletcher?’ Gold spoke clearly, as though to an errant child.

‘Yes boss.’ Said his dogsbody, dutifully. ‘Reckon he heard it and went to hide in a cupboard with his insurance papers. Found him in there, shaking like a leaf.’ Really, Gold thought, he must be rubbing off on Fletcher because that last sentence was almost contemptuous. He did need to work on his sneer though.

It would be too much to say that Moe looked ashamed, clearly he realised that he was in mortal peril and was rapidly pushing away his pride. He’d not have any left by the time Gold was done with him. Belle’s Father was a dead man the moment Regina had uttered his name. Gold dismissed the thought, he’d not think of Belle. He _couldn’t._

He deliberately turned his gaze to Regina and he reached a hand into the deep pocket of his jacket to retrieve the dagger with her name on it. Interesting touch that, it was usually a bullet that was named, was it not?. ‘Now, French, I’m something of a gentleman at heart so you are simply going to have to wait your turn behind Madam Mills here.’ Gold drew up a chair to sit in front of the seething woman and straddled it. ‘We are going to have a little _chat._ Won’t that be nice?’

She spat in his face and Gold brought his cane down hard on her foot. She screamed and he felt the need for vengeance that was wrapped around his chest swell in satisfaction.. ‘Now, now, Regina, play _nicely._ Tell me about this dagger, my dear. I’m sure you are _dying_ to tell me all about it.’ 

‘I don’t know anything about it, you beast! I’ve had it as long as I remember-- but I don’t remember anything about it. All I know is that once it was gone I _needed it back._ ’ She let out a stream of profanities: her foot was probably broken after all. Gold calmly replaced the dagger on the table and took out a handkerchief, wiping his face. 

‘Tut tut. Language. Apologise to poor Fletcher for sullying his virgin ears.’ Fletcher, watching the proceedings with interest, threw his boss a dry smirk. 

Regina visibly fought it, biting her tongue and struggling, but Gold saw that she could not seem to help the words from falling out of her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Fletcher, for sullying your virgin ears,’ she repeated, wide-eyed with terror. Really, this heady rush of power was in danger of becoming _fun._

‘Very good, dearie. Now, tell me, does the dagger somehow compel you to obey the person who possesses it? Where did you get such an interesting article?’

‘Yes, it’s a curse. I don’t _remember_ where I got it,’ she bit out and savagely continued. ‘The whore is dead, then? Well done, French! Good job, I never knew you had it in you. Is poor widdle Goldilocks bwoken hearted? Was it twoo wuv? Did little Belle...’ 

Was the bitch mad, or that she was _trying_ to goad him?

The rest of her foolish tirade came to an abrupt halt when Gold stood up and dealt her a vicious blow to the head with the metal end of his cane. She fell off the stool with a thud, unconscious. 

Mr. Gold stepped over her to open the black bag, which he’d dumped on the table. Moe, alarmed, dug deep for an ounce of bravery in himself. ‘Now, see here! Mr. Gold...’

Gold cut him off without even turning around. ‘Gag him, Fletcher. I don’t want to hear his voice again.’ As this was being accomplished, Regina came to and swore.

Gold crouched over her, oozing false benevolence. ‘Oh dear, deary me. Poor Regina. You must have quite a headache after that. There is a new rule you may want to pay attention to, dearie.’ He leant over and yanked on her hair, dragging her ear to his mouth, _‘You are not worthy to speak her name!’_ he released her quickly, he was repulsed by the feel of her hair in his hands. ‘Would you like a couple of Tylenol to help ease that thudding in your brain? Of course you would, here you are, dearie.’

He popped two into her mouth and she struggled to swallow them, her throat obviously feeling dry and parched. He smiled, his eyes glinting and he straightened up to reach the table. He picked up the doctors bag and emptied it over the floor. Boxes and boxes of Tylenol dropped out and scattered.

Regina must have seen, in that instant, the icy cold fury that had overtaken him and was trying very hard to remember just why she had courted it. He scowled. She couldn’t possibly comprehend what she’d done to him with her little stunt. 

For as long as Gold could remember Regina, she’d been trying to cause everyone in the world to hurt, for no understandable reason. He at least always had a logical reason for it, _he_ usually left the innocent alone unless there was some profit in disturbing them. She seemed to despise the happiness of others, _his_ especially. It just didn’t make sense.

‘Please.’ Ah. Well it was was worth a try. The helpless always tried to beg for their worthless lives. Maybe she thought that if she showed remorse, he wouldn’t make her suffer. It was always _possible_ that he might have a change of heart.

Regina was quite wrong. Mr. Gold was _wild_ for vengeance and he had no heart: it had ceased to exist the moment Belle was gone.

‘Quiet.’ One word, laced with such authority that she had no choice but to obey. ‘Your head must still be hurting, Regina. It was quite a nasty bang after all, such a pity your mouth gets you into so. much. trouble.’ Gold returned to his chair. ‘Take them all,’ he added, and sat down to observe.

Even as she scrambled for the packet nearest to her, Regina began to weep.He knew that she couldn’t speak or plead with him, her voice intent on obeying him even as her hands were reacting to his orders. She struggled to beg with her eyes and he dispassionately thought that she looked like a frightened horse. She’d swear to leave him alone. She’d probably leave everyone alone if he’d let her live. He wouldn’t. Regina was an intelligent woman; she had contacts at the hospital, and she knew very well what the consequences of a painkiller overdose were. As she opened her mouth to robotically throw in the first handful, she met his hard eyes and she’d find no mercy there. She’d seen to it herself-- whatever softness had been in his heart was gone with the life of Belle French.

Regina had made her way through fifty-six packets by the time Mr. Gold’s cell phone bleeped at him. Darkness had fallen and he didn’t know whether it was the cloak of night or the result his own black mood colouring his vision. 

Gold answered the call and saw that Regina was crawling towards a packet that had fallen by his shoe, he heard the doctor at the hospital announce himself and begin a babbled apology for the terrible misunderstanding. Belle French’s heart had indeed stopped beating, but Mrs. Hubbard had been premature with her phone call, they had managed to revive the young lady and she was stable again.

‘ _What?!’_ he rasped. The man’s words had rocked him to his core, he heard his babbled apologies echoing down the phone again. He ended the call. He needed to get to the hospital.

Regina probably wanted to die by now anyway. Gold watched her retch black bile up and saw it fall to the wooden floor of the cabin. This could go on for ages, days even. Gold lifted her up off the floor; she couldn’t hold her head straight enough to see his face, but she’d hear his voice reverberating around her head and would probably get the message.

‘You have been unexpectedly granted a degree of mercy. You may stop now. My Belle is alive. You failed.’ His hands shook and Gold turned to Fletcher. ‘Her heart stopped beating but they managed to revive her; the doctor only just found out that the receptionist called me too soon, doubtless in a misguided attempt at revenge. _She’s alive!’_ He turned back to the silently sobbing woman who had crumpled back into a heap at his feet and took the dagger from the table.

‘This is mercy, Regina,’ he whispered harshly and he plunged the knife into her heart. 

_He knew the instant she was dead because power flowed into him. Memories that weren’t his invaded his mind. The moment Regina was no more, knowledge filled his brain._

_Gold suddenly knew the whole lives of every former master of the dagger in his hand, their memories, thoughts and feelings. Everything. He was not surprised, when he withdrew the bloodied blade, that it was glowing purple; he was even expectant when he glanced down and saw that ‘The Queen’ was no longer etched into the metal. Written clearly on the dagger was ‘Rumpelstiltskin’._

_He felt the thrill of magic coursing through him: he knew how to use it, to bid it obey him. He remembered, as though he were Regina: The Queen herself, creating and casting the curse that was called Storybrooke. All for revenge over a dead stablehand. Fairytale people and creatures kept from their allotted destiny by a curse intended to bleed happiness from the lives of every citizen. He remembered also that Regina had underestimated the sentience of the curse, and how it had made her forget all knowledge of her power and life as Queen, even as it destroyed the potential for happiness in the town. He could break the curse and send them all back to fulfil the lives they were destined for. He himself was intended to master the blade._

_He was Rumpelstiltskin. The Dark One._

He giggled. Fletcher took a step back. French shifted in his seat, and Rumpelstiltskin saw a telltale pool of liquid run off the front of the man’s chair and onto the floor. 

All of this happened in a single moment; the following second, he felt his heart fill with hope. He could save Belle. He had the magic at his fingertips to completely heal her. He would pour every last drop of himself into her and consider it a fair trade. It would not be necessary though, all that he needed to do was to give her body a push in the right direction. 

He waved his hand in the air. French screamed in his throat, the sound muffled by the cloth over his mouth and even the stoic Fletcher gave a surprised shout as purple smoke filled the cabin and left Moe and the dead woman both stripped of their clothes and tied up, back to back, against each other. 

Rumpelstiltskin gave another flourish and a flock of butterflies fluttered about the room. How pretty, he really did have a flair for creativity it would seem. He leant over Moe French. 

‘Shall I tell you what will happen to your body as poor dear Regina rots against your back? You will rot too. It's a dreadful business. Your flesh will slowly moulder and decay, even as you are still alive. Oh, It’ll kill you, but slowly-- very slowly.’ He smiled and watched Moe’s face turn a ghastly, horrified white. The man desperately tried to prise himself away from Regina’s still warm body, looking at the winged insects with alarm. 

’I see you are admiring my lovely butterflies. They are rather nice, aren’t they? Incidentally, they _usually_ feed off the decaying bodies of dead animals. You should be an interesting challenge to their limited palate.’ Rumpelstiltskin didn’t know if it was the Dark One who had this knowledge or himself, it was difficult to determine. 

Fletcher looked sick and very, very confused. ‘Uhhh, boss? Shall I go check on Miss Belle?’

The man in the suit felt power shimmer through him. He had magic coursing through his bones, over his skin, magic that Fletcher didn’t even know existed. He would use it to heal Belle and then remove all trace of Regina’s curse from the world. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘No, you may wait here.’ He looked with contempt at the whimpering florist. ‘I’ll come back in a week, unless he’s dead before then. I’m off to rescue my lady damsel in distress.’ With that, he gave a theatrical bow, turned on his heel and disappeared into thin air.

Mr. Gold’s signature cane stood alone for a moment or two, before swaying once on its end and clattering noisily to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **At Mr. Gold’s cabin, Regina reveals that the dagger does indeed control her actions although she does not know why. Mr. Gold ends Regina’s life by stabbing her with the dagger. When he withdraws the blade he is Rumpelstiltskin, with magic and all of the memories of each Dark One preceding him.**
> 
>  
> 
> **He remembers that Regina created and cast the curse that created Storybrooke and interfered with the destinies of the townsfolk, but did not realise that the curse had a mind of its own and wiped her own memories too, all this time she has had magic but not known it.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Belle is alive, Mr Gold had a phone call that although her heart stopped beating, she was revived and the person from the hospital who told him she died at the end of Chapter 7 did so prematurely.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Rumpelstiltskin arranges for the (absolute certain) death of Moe French and disappears to magically heal Belle.**
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> 
> Comments are always welcomed, its really nice to hear what you think.


	9. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle comes around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to LadyofJest, if you find mistakes--they are all mine, I just can't seem to leave well enough alone.

Belle gradually became aware of the fact that she was _not_ dead. She would not go so far as to say she was alive, because she was quite sure that ‘alive’ meant something more than being enveloped in darkness, with only vague awareness of voices floating indistinctly around her head.

She hazily remembered crashing her beautiful new car, a sickening crunch and then a dreadful amount of pain. She remembered an excruciating journey by ambulance and wishing for death if it would only mean some peace and quiet and an end to being pulled about and prodded.

It surprised her, that she was not quite dead. Belle had been certain that she would die when she hit the tarmac with such force. She was even more surprised when, after an eternity of indistinct pain, she suddenly found awareness of her own body returning to her very quickly and the agony receding to a dull headache. She cautiously opened her eyes and saw a man hovering over her.

He looked like Mr. Gold, but not like _her_ Mr. Gold. To begin with, the man was smiling broadly at her and that was simply not something Mr. Gold did. Secondly, he was clasping her hand with rough, trembling fingers and although Mr. Gold often _did_ hold her hand his touch was always sure and steady. 

The Mr. Gold she knew did not look at her tenderly with tears in his eyes and when he had kissed her hands before, it had not been with something akin to feverish relief.

It was all very odd. 

‘Belle.’ What a lovely way he had of saying her name. So soft and resonant. Why had she never noticed before? She tried to smile at him but her lips were so dry that they split from the movement. He produced a water bottle and held it to her mouth. After a few sips her mouth felt much better and she looked around. She was clearly in a hospital, in a private room. It was nice enough, white walls, white furniture, boring. Not like home at all.

‘Mr. Gold?’ She tried out her voice and it felt weak and foreign to her. ‘I’m sorry about the car. I’ll find a way to pay for it; the brakes wouldn’t work and I think something went wrong with the wheels. Is it totally wrecked?’

He was looking at her blankly. Why did he look so different? What was it about him? Or was it something about _her_? She closed her eyes and sank back against the pillow. She felt very tired, but better, as though she could sleep _properly_ now instead of just slipping into the frightening blackness that she had been in before. 

She heard his voice say her name again and she sighed in contentment, trying to listen to the rest of his sentence. ‘Sleep now, dearie, don’t fret about the car-- it was all yours anyway. Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.’

He was. The next time she woke she felt much more normal: the fuzziness had faded along with the pain this time and she felt clearer in the head. Gold was sat in an armchair that she hadn’t seen before, reading a book, and had not yet noticed her watching him. 

It wasn’t often that she got to stare at him unnoticed. Usually, it was him who would notice her every movement. She had become accustomed to it as her time with him progressed, reasoning out that he was not watching her to catch her out or to intimidate her, but simply because he liked to. 

He was clearly relaxed, legs crossed casually with the book open on his knee. She couldn’t see from where she was what he was reading, but the cover looked old and worn. His forehead was creased slightly in concentration and part of his hair had slipped forwards; she wanted to brush it back. Belle watched as Gold lifted his hand from his lap and gave a twisting flourish with his wrist and _unbelievably_ , a dagger appeared in his hand.

She shrieked. 

His head snapped up, startled to find her staring, horrified at him, with wide eyes and fearful tears. He jumped up from the chair and crossed the room, with _not one single sign_ of a limp, to the bed where she shrank back, trying to free the covers so that she could run. She thought he looked grim.

‘Belle, no! Don’t, you’ll hurt yourself. Please...stay in bed. Shhh!’

She was still screaming when he clamped a hand over her mouth, tears leaking from her eyes which were fixated on the strange dagger in his hand. 

‘Oh!’ With another flourish, it was gone. The shock of it halted her screams and he cautiously took his hand from her mouth. 

‘H-how? What? That’s. not. _possible!_ The knife--your leg!’ Her voice sounded hoarse and rough, not like herself at all. She was really afraid of him, not that that was anything new-- he’d always been the scariest man she’d ever met, but she’d always thought that was on account of his reputation and demeanour, not... _whatever_ it was that he just did. She had to get away from him.

Belle tore herself out of his gentle grasp and slid out from the other side of the bed, feeling shaky but hoping the adrenaline would aid her to run if she had to. He looked vaguely panicked when she, not taking her eyes off him, edged towards the door.

‘Where will you run to, dearie? They won’t believe you.’ He said it quietly, in that calm, slightly mocking way of his and it gave her pause. He was probably right and didn’t look _likely_ to murder her with some sort of conjured-up weapon. That said, if anyone could coldly and calmly do away with an unsuspecting victim, she supposed it would be him.

She stood still and grasped the door handle for support. ‘They might.’ _Or they might swiftly arrange for an army of shrinks to lock her up again. ‘Mr. Gold is a witch’ didn’t sound that convincing, did it?_

He half smiled, ‘No, dearie, I don’t think they will. A young woman with a long history of delusion? Who has just experienced a traumatic accident? As charming as you are, my pet, it sounds rather absurd, don’t you think?’

He was right. Of course, he was right. She kept her hand on the door regardless. Wary. Her voice trembled as she asked, ‘Why the knife? Were you going to finish me off?’

The corner of his mouth turned sharply down in a grimace and his brows slammed downwards.. ‘I _believe_ I have already assured you of your safety with me once before, _dearie_.’ She wondered if she’d hurt his feelings and tried not to care.

‘ _Before_ I wasn’t aware that you were in the habit of suddenly producing _really big knives!_ ’ she hissed back at him. 

Gold took a few smooth steps towards her and halted when he saw her flinch. It struck her that he looked incomplete without his cane to aid him and his new, unhesitating gait was strange to see, she almost felt sad that his familiar halting steps were gone. ‘Why don’t you say what really bothers you, my dear? It isn’t so much the weapon, is it? It’s the manner in which it arrived.’ She didn’t answer him. He came closer with those smooth catlike steps until he could reach out and take her hand in his. He looked into her eyes and continued, ‘Regardless of any _special abilities_ I may have acquired, you are-- still-- safer with me than anyone else in any world.’ Gold bent to kiss her hand, ‘You have no cause to fear me.’

Oh didn’t she? It was difficult to _not_ be afraid of a man who could produce fearsome weaponry, seemingly at will, and who by some strange art now walked freely, when before, he could barely stand without help from a stick. She had seen the mangled, twisted scarring on his leg and the wasted muscle there. It was simply not _possible_ that such an old injury was now suddenly mended. It was all the more terrifying because she did not understand it. She waved a questioning hand in the direction of his thigh, unable to find the words to voice her bewilderment.

He smiled at her quizzically. ‘Ah. Shall we call it a new and alternative cure until you are more able to process the truth? Believe it or not, my dear...there is an explanation, but I think it can wait, don’t you?’

Belle knew she was crazy-- she’d been institutionalized after all and had certificates to prove it-- but she found herself nodding in agreement with the man. ‘You’ve not hurt me so far,’ was all she said in response to his earlier remarks. She let him lead her back to the bed, where he smoothed her hair-- which she was sure must look absolutely dreadful-- and dropped a light kiss on her cheek. It was such a familiar thing for him to do that it calmed her a little and she thought with dismay that she might need the army of shrinks after all if his affection could affect her that much. 

‘A few more days in here, my dear, just to prove to the doctors that you are miraculously completely healed and I will take you home.’ He returned to his chair and put away his book (normally, thank goodness). ‘Your friends have been by to see you a few times; I daresay they’ll drop by again soon now that you are awake. Miss Lucas seems to have been teaching Miss Blanchard the art of persistence. The pair of them have simply _hounded_ the poor hospital staff for information about your injuries. Mrs. Moppet and Fletcher have been just as bad. I think our dear housekeeper has baked you six different cakes.’

Belle smiled weakly, eagerly following his change of subject. ‘I’d love to see them, Mr. Gold. They must have been so worried.’ Her smile faltered slightly and he noticed.

‘Tell me.’

‘Has my father tried to see me?’ 

‘No, dearie,’ he said carefully, ‘The Sheriff has opened a missing person enquiry for your father and... Regina Mills. It’s being treated as suspicious.’ 

‘Wh-What? Missing? Where would he go? Do you think he’s okay?’ The sympathy that had very briefly crossed his face moments earlier, switched quickly to impatience.

He sighed. ‘Belle. The last time your father was seen was when he was walking away from your car. There was evidence of tampering on what was left of the vehicle. An insurance company has been asking questions about why a man would try to collect a payout on his daughter who is _not yet dead_. Do I _need_ to be any clearer?’ She let out a sob and he frowned, ‘Don’t think on it now, my pet. Get well first. I’ll deal with it.’

Belle’s mind was awhirl with unanswered questions. Not one answer that presented itself gave her any comfort. She supposed that she couldn’t blindly hope that the accident was all a misunderstanding, Gold wouldn’t let her. He was always brutally honest and did not hide from painful truths, neither did he permit anyone else to. Out of the pair of them, it was she who avoided thinking of unpleasant things--hoping that they might go away without troubling her. Gold faced unpleasantness head on. In that moment she was grateful for it. If anyone could prise an honest explanation from Moe French it would be Mr. Gold. 

‘I hope the Sheriff finds him,’ she whispered. 

‘Oh, I’m sure he will, my dear,’ Gold said cheerfully, not looking up from the book that had suddenly reappeared on his lap and ignoring Belle’s resulting squeak. ‘If Moe French is to be found, Earp will dig him up.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it, it's just a transitional chapter. The next chapter gets more... _interesting._


	10. Shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A separation and a homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you LadyofJest for beta-ing this for me.

Rumpelstiltskin was simmering, waiting for the right moment to obliterate the curse that separated Storybrooke from the land he knew was _home._ He wanted to see the place with his own eyes again, feel it with his senses instead of knowing it only through the memories of the Dark One. 

In this land without magic, his power felt weaker than he knew it could be. It wasn’t natural here. _Here_ the magic felt clumsy to his fingertips and he _knew_ that in that other land, the one with enchanted forests and towering castles, it would come to him as easily as his next breath.

The problem, of course, was Belle. He’d mended her broken bones, patched up the organs that had been crushed and set her skin on its way towards fixing itself. She’d spent five whole days in hospital after a crash that should have killed her, and on the fifth day she walked unaided through the hospital doors to the car that Fletcher had brought round. She had panicked then, staring wide-eyed at the door that Fletcher was holding open for her. A warning glance from his employer stopped the large man from stepping forward to reassure her. That wouldn’t have done at all. 

‘It needs to be done, my darling,’ he’d crooned in her ear. Belle’s head had whipped round -- he’d never called her that before -- and he smiled ruefully. She allowed him to hand her into the backseat of the car and had buried her face in his shoulder for the entire journey home. He hadn’t minded _that_ , of course; it was rather nice to be able to give her comfort. What was worrying was that afterwards she treated him warily, as though he might do something _awful_ to her, like turn her into a frog or declare his undying love.

She avoided any mention of the unpleasant incident in the hospital when she’d observed him playing with his new power. _Little coward_ , he thought fondly. He allowed that it might be difficult to normalize waking up from horrific injuries to witness the man you lived with producing a dagger from thin air, but he had found it utterly mystifying how fast she had leapt to the conclusion that he’d intended her harm. He’d just as soon cut out his own heart-- sooner, in fact. 

Belle had woken with nightmares every single night since coming home and he’d had enough. He couldn’t protect her from her own mind. It was always cars. She’d begin tossing and turning, moaning about the deer and the brakes and then wake up screaming in wordless horror. He held her, at a loss for words of comfort that might help. She was always half asleep still so he wrapped his arms around her and would whisper into her hair that she was safe, that he’d protect her, he adored her and, if she’d let him, he would keep her safe forever.

She confided to him shyly one morning that she found his voice was very reassuring when she felt panic pressing down on her. They’d spoken at length about her nightmares and what triggered them.

‘I hate cars, Mr. Gold.’ She still called him that; he’d not corrected her, after all, but it sounded so _wrong_ now. He wanted to hear her sweet voice caress the syllables of the name he knew belonged to him. He forced himself to listen. ‘I’d be much happier if I never, ever saw one again,’ she laughed, and although he knew she was half joking, he heard the plaintive note of wistfulness that meant she wished it were possible. ‘I’m sorry I keep waking you. I _would_ offer to sleep in another room, but I think that might be even more horrible when I woke up.’

He had said, quite emphatically, that that was not an acceptable solution. 

In the end, he brewed her a potion and slipped it into her tea-- it wasn’t any hardship and he was willing to bear the small price that the magic demanded. It had worked beautifully, and in the morning she seemed much more herself. So much herself, in fact, that she’d scowled at him when he’d playfully demanded her gratitude for slipping her a potion. 

‘You put a. _magic_. potion. in my tea?’ Really, she should have been on the stage: the sceptical and yet appalled inflection she got into the word ‘magic’ was beautifully delivered. 

He didn’t believe in wasting words, so he just nodded-- no point in repeating what she already knew, after all. 

She sat very still. ‘And I thought I was supposed to be the crazy one, Mr. Gold.’ His eyebrows shot up. She wasn’t usually quite so blunt when she was displeased. Perhaps she _finally_ believed that he’d do her no harm and thus felt comfortable insulting him. How nice. 

‘Mr. Gold?’ She ventured after a long silence. ‘How long have you been able to do...that?’ 

‘Magic?’

‘Yes. I don’t understand how I didn’t realise...’ What was that he heard in her voice?

‘It’s been a relatively... recent development for me.’ He wasn’t exactly going to tell her the truth now, was he?

‘Oh.’ She digested this. ‘ _Since_ I signed your contract?’

‘Yes.’ 

‘Oh,’ she said again. She seemed relieved. ‘How much can you do? Is it just tricks or... bigger stuff?’ 

He wondered why she was asking now. ‘Well, I don’t quite know, dearie. I’ve not yet reached my limits. There are _laws_ I can’t breach.’ He didn’t mention the experiments he’d conducted in his lab whilst she had been in the care of Mrs. Moppet; best not to unnerve her.

‘Like what?’ My, she was a curious little thing today, wasn’t she. He possessed himself of her hand and idly played with her delicate fingertips as he thought about his response.

‘I can’t bring people back from the dead. I can’t make someone fall in love and, above all, I mustn’t forget that all magic comes with a price.’

‘It sounds like something from a book of fairy tales. I can hardly believe it.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t think I _would_ believe it if I hadn’t seen you do it with my own eyes. Although, I suppose I don’t have the best track record for imagining things that aren’t real.’

He chuckled and summoned a book to his hand. This time, she didn’t squeal or jump-- she just looked mystified. He opened the book to the story of the miller’s daughter and spinning straw into gold.

‘Fairy tales!’

He wordlessly pointed to the illustration of a little man with an impish grin and a wooden leg. She leant over it and gasped.

‘Mr. Gold! He... you...’ She pulled her hand away and sank down into the nearest kitchen chair. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’

Casually, he twisted his hand and the book disappeared. 

‘Briefly, my pet, Storybrooke ought not to have existed for us. It was created as part of a powerful curse-- our rightful home is in a land where magic has not been relegated to children’s stories and half-forgotten legend. Everyone in Storybrooke belongs in that other land and so they are doomed to misery when away from it. We are all out of our natural habitat. Nobody here can be completely happy unless we return there, leaving this town, this world behind.’

‘Oh. I see.’ She didn’t really, he thought, but at least she was trying. ‘How is that done?’

‘There are two ways. In every curse, there is a safeguard built in to break it. The first way to break it is to wait twenty-eight years for a specific, unnamed rescuer to come along in order to bestow True Love’s Kiss-- I don’t think we will wait for that one, dearie. Or I can break it magically. It will take a lot of power, and everyone in Storybrooke will owe me a price.’ He smiled unpleasantly and his eyes glittered. ‘But think it will be _worth_ it, don’t you?’

He took her hand again and looked into her eyes. ‘Belle, I don’t entirely know how dangerous this might be, so I want you to go into town and stay with your friends for tonight. Once Storybrooke is gone, I will find you and come for you.’ There was a curious look in her eye and he wished he knew what it meant.

‘Alright. Be careful, won’t you?’ She said no more, and he suspected that she didn’t quite believe him, but she went to get her bag. He knew she was anxious when she willingly leant up to kiss him goodbye, before heading out through the front door.

Rumpelstiltskin watched her go with a roiling, lurching heart then turned and set to work.

________________________

Belle went to Mary Margaret’s for the night. She was welcomed with open arms and Ruby came round to prod Belle and shake her head in astonishment that she was so unhurt.

‘You should have seen yourself, in the hospital.’ she said, lowly ‘Not one of us thought you’d get back up again or that you’d even wake. Mr. Gold was as furious as anyone has ever seen him, he had your car taken to the pound and crushed it himself.’ She sighed. ‘It was such a pretty car.’ Ruby wrapped Belle in a bear hug. ‘I’m so glad you’re ok. I even went to the nuns, you know.’ She sounded a bit defensive, so Belle, touched, hugged her back and did not laugh. ‘The Reverend Mother said they’d all been praying for you anyway, but that I was welcome to join them. I’ve never wished for a miracle more in my life.’

Belle leant forward and kissed her friend on the cheek. ‘You are a good friend, Ruby, to brave the perils of a big scary convent all for me.’ She smiled. ‘I’m glad Mr. Gold destroyed the car. I never want to see another one again!’

Mary Margaret returned from collecting their pizza delivery from the door. ‘Right, ladies! Grab a plate and eat! Belle gets first piece on account of being in recovery and to celebrate her first night away from her _boyfriend!’_

Belle, who had just taken a swig of coke, spluttered and sprayed it out through her nose. 

It was a wonderful, companionable evening: the women watched movies, ate junk food and talked well into the night. Eventually, Belle drifted off contentedly on the sofa and Mary Margaret tucked a blanket around her. Ruby headed to the guest room and Mary Margaret to her own bed. 

Belle had only been asleep for a couple of hours when she was woken by the sound of a clock chiming midnight; a bright, blinding flash of light flooded in through the windows and she waited for the thunder to follow it. There was nothing: just a strange stillness that hung in the air. She frowned, but closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

✿

When she awoke, she was not lying on Mary Margaret's living room sofa. The room was not littered with pizza and ice cream boxes. She was not even in Mary Margaret's _house._ She screamed and Mary Margaret, soon followed by Ruby, came running into the room in which she lay.

The three women looked at each other, dumbfounded. They appeared to be in some sort of a cottage. A cold fireplace was on one wall, with a black cauldron suspended over it. A small table, on which lay a loaf of bread and a pot of jam, made up what could pass as a kitchen. Ruby wore a long, red hooded cloak over a dark dress and had a sharp look on her face. Mary Margaret-- who did not look quite like Mary Margaret with such long, dark tresses-- also wore a dress, but hers looked finer, lighter and made her look the very picture of innocence. 

Belle looked down and saw herself similarly clad in dark skirts. She shook her head. He had been serious, then, about breaking a curse. She hadn’t been sure if he was raving or joking-- although granted he didn’t do so much of either. 

Mary Margaret spoke first, her voice trembling. ‘This isn’t a dream, is it? Or is it? Should I not have had that fourth brownie straight after the triple cheese pizza?’

Belle shook her head. ‘Its real,’ she said, and found she could say no more. She walked to the window and looked out. She saw tall trees, green, lush grass and a beautiful clear sky. They were in the middle of a forest and without needing to be told, she knew that it was known as the _Enchanted Forest._

Ruby walked over to the table and began slicing the bread up as evenly as she could. She did not say a word as she spread jam on each slice and put it on plates. She seemed to know where they were kept. The women sat at the table and stared at the simple meal.

Ruby did not raise her eyes as she examined her food. ‘I’m having... memories. Two sets of memories.’ She put a hand up to her forehead and scowled. ‘It’s _really_ confusing. I think this is my home. I don’t know why you are here. My name is... Red.’ She smashed her fist to the table in frustration.

Mary Margaret jumped. ‘Snow. My name is Snow White,’ she said feebly.

Red snorted. ‘You are _kidding_ me.’

Belle scowled at her. ‘Not helpful, Ruby!’

‘ _Red_ ,’ growled the taller woman.

‘Very well. _Red_. I’m Belle LeFay. My father is a ruler in the Far Fens.. I... Storybrooke was a curse, it shouldn’t have even existed. I think... I think this place feels more... right. Don’t you? I feel more like myself. Less weak. Less empty.’

The women did not venture out of the cottage that day: they swept and cleaned, and did not need to learn about cooking over a fire-- it all seemed so natural. There was no talk of going their separate ways and no need for a spoken consensus to stay together; they made up an extra bed in Red’s room for Mary Margaret, and Belle opted to sleep by the fire. When the women eventually ventured as far as the towns and market places, the citizens of Storybrooke were still talking of their dual memories and acclimatizing to a different way of life. 

Much discussion was had about what might have happened, and Belle shared what little she knew. After a night of sleeping by a dying fire and waking up covered in ashes, Belle wondered in what twisted way Mr. Gold measured happiness that _this_ was the better option. She wondered where he was at that moment and whether or not he missed her. She felt an odd pang that she did not know where he was, if he was safe or even what his name was in this strange yet familiar land. She contented herself with the thought that every citizen from Storybrooke owed him an immense debt for breaking the curse, and she fingered her mother’s necklace with a furrowed brow. 

If Belle knew Mr. Gold at all, he would not be tardy in collecting what was owed to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it. I am always interested to know what people think and if you are still reading. 
> 
> My name is Persephone and I am a comment addict.
> 
>  
> 
> _*Hangs head in shame*_


	11. Royal Flush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding, a ball and a reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to LadyofJest for her continued patience in beta-ing this.
> 
> MarquesadeSantos deserves any thanks for this being posted earlier than I intended. She pulled a stunning guilt trip, really masterful. ;)
> 
> Thank you to all you lovely people who comment. It means so much to have encouragement.

Two months passed and still Mr. Gold did not come. Belle began to worry for him, and often wondered, as she completed her daily tasks, if something had gone amiss. 

Snow White left their happy little cottage after eight weeks: she _said_ that she had been picking berries in the forest when a handsome, familiar man rode by on a white horse. On seeing her, he had exclaimed with delight and swept her onto his horse after they shared a kiss. Belle rather thought that there might have been a bit more to it than that as, when retelling the tale, Snow looked decidedly shifty when the Prince playfully praised her skillful thievery in relieving him of his... _heart._

Snow had Prince James stop by the cottage before he swept her off to his home and she explained it to her friends. Red said that not much really needed explaining; she was leaving a pokey little cottage to find her happily ever after. Belle threw her arms around her beaming friend.

‘We want to come to the wedding! You do realise I am _stealing_ your bed? I don’t have to sleep by the fire anymore!’

James, who really was very charming indeed, promptly invited Red and Belle to live in the palace. ‘After all, we have stacks of room!’

Glancing at Red (who preferred to minimise human contact for a very good reason), Belle declined gently, saying that they were quite happy where they were.

And, for the most part, they were. On the nights when the moon was full, Red would run through the forest and come home at first light, exhausted and completely naked. Belle would wrap a scarlet cloak about her and tuck her into bed. The first time had been a bit of a shock, but as with everything in her strange, strange life she became accustomed to it.

At the next new moon, a messenger arrived from the palace bringing horses and an invitation from Snow White, who was to be married in two days time. She wanted her dear friends to stand with her at her wedding. 

Belle and Red (who flirted outrageously with the messenger the whole way) made the journey to the palace. It wasn’t that far-- only half a day's ride-- and, upon arriving, they greeted Snow White warmly. The bride glowed with the happiness of loving and being loved in return. 

A gown of dull gold lace awaited Belle, and Snow White herself came to lace her up, murmuring obliquely that she wasn’t so trusting about letting other women do her bodice up these days. Belle, although curious, did not ask.

A few hours later, Belle wiped a happy tear away as Snow White and her Prince Charming pledged their whole lives to each other, wreathed in smiles.

When the solemn ceremony was concluded, the party made their way to the ballroom and Snow White and her Prince started the dancing. Belle looked on from the sidelines. Mr. Gold had said that real happiness could only happen in this world. She wistfully wondered when (and if) her turn would come, and tried to imagine what her husband might be like. Would he be tall, with gentle manners and a ready grin? She wrinkled her nose. Perhaps something was wrong with her, because that image seemed awfully dull. Her treacherous mind kept supplying her with steel grey hair and cunning eyes that tracked her every move.

A shrill scream was heard as a puff of purple smoke appeared in front of the couple and a little man with golden skin and clad in leather popped into the middle of the ballroom. Prince Charming drew his sword and stepped in front of his bride. Red clung to Belle, who stood absolutely still in a shock of recognition. It was _him._

He gave a flourishing, mocking bow. ‘So sorry I’m late, your Highnesses. I’ve been awfully busy since our return home. I’ll just collect the debts I am owed and be on my way, shall I? You seem to all be having such a lovely party that I’d _hate_ to interrupt such a _happy_ event.’

‘State your business, sorcerer. You are interrupting our wedding celebration.’ Charming did not lower his sword. Belle, shrinking against the wall to avoid notice, heard the whisperings all around her.

‘It’s Rumpelstiltskin!’

‘They say he’s the one who broke the curse.’

‘What will he take in return? That’s the question!’

Rumpelstiltskin slapped the sword away as though it were a river reed. ‘It is really quite simple. I am owed payment for returning you all here so that _you_ could have your happily ever after. Are you not _grateful?_ ’ He said with sinister inflection. 

‘What is it you want, Dark One? Gold?’ The prince was a brave man, his question almost spat out and he kept his wife behind him with an outstretched arm.

Rumpelstiltskin smiled. ‘Ah! So you _have_ heard of me, how convenient. No, I don’t need gold. I have plenty of my own, dearie.’

He lounged on the throne and tapped his chin, grinning. Belle wondered how his teeth had gotten so awful in such a short time. ‘From your _charming_ wife, I will take a lock of hair. As for you, your Highness-- I want you to find a woman for me.’

Fearful, feminine gasps went around the room. 

‘I would subject no female to your attentions, _beast;_ name another price.’

Rumpelstiltskin rolled his eyes. ‘Really, how _can_ you leap to such unsavoury conclusions? It is a _specific_ woman I seek, you imbecile. She owes me also but, alas, I have been unsuccessful in locating her. Return her to me, and I shall hold your debt repaid.’

Charming hesitated. It was known to be a dangerous thing to owe this man anything. ‘If I aid you in your search, do you intend her harm?’

Rumpelstiltskin, a hand over his heart, affected open-mouthed outrage. ‘ _I?_ harm a _lady?_ ’

‘Well then, what is her name? I shall send out men to scour the lands.’

‘That is rather the point. I don’t know her name. In the old world, she was Belle French-- but there is no trace of her in the palaces or great houses of this world.’ He looked bone-weary for a moment, Belle thought, and wondered if anyone else noticed it.

Prince Charming opened his mouth to reply and Belle, summoning up courage, stepped forwards with a deep curtsey. ‘You might have had more success, had you looked in the woodlands and humble cottages instead, Rumpelstiltskin.’ She congratulated herself that she had surprised him: he whirled around on his heel, eyes gleaming in the candlelight. His eyes searched her face. He recovered admirably and bowed.

‘My Lady.’ He said slowly. ‘How lovely you look. I see our temporary separation has caused you no hardship.’ 

Now why did he sound so put out about that? She wondered. ‘Well, here I am. My friends owe you nothing now.’

‘Not. _quite_. my pet.’ He turned to Charming. ‘How fortunate for you, that you are saved the effort of finding the Lady Belle, now let us see...what must you owe me instead.’

Belle scowled. ‘You wanted to find me. Here I am! You have gotten what you wanted; will you not let them alone?’

Rumpelstiltskin wagged a gnarled finger, and she could not help but compare it to the smooth, elegant hands of Mr. Gold. ‘Not so, my dear, pay attention to the details. I said I wanted him to _find_ a woman for me. You, quite imprudently, presented yourself-- he did no _finding._ ’

Belle waved her hand impatiently. ‘Is that not merely playing with words, sir?’

‘Hardly, dearie, it is the subtleties that matter in my business.’ He looked at Charming and Snow White, considering. ‘I will forgo your lock of hair, madam, and in exchange for risking my very life in order to return you to your rightful home, will accept the pledge of your first born child instead.’

Belle felt sick. Snow White looked like she wanted to faint. Red was behind her, growling low in her throat. 

Rumpelstiltskin heard it, ‘Ahhh! The former Miss Lucas-- how fortunate, I have been looking for you too. So many debts to collect today, what luck I have!’

Belle swallowed and tentatively tried her power. ‘Rumpelstiltskin. If you insist on torturing my friends, I will refuse to even speak with you. The agreement we had in Storybrooke is now void, the calendar year is over.’

He stilled. Had she made him angry? It seemed impossible that this was the same man who had held her so sweetly, so comfortingly at night when she awoke from terrible nightmares. How was it that this same man was now delighting in causing her friend’s distress?

She waited. She was entirely herself here, and she would not be cowed with the sense of unworthiness that had so paralyzed her in Storybrooke. She was Belle LeFay and she was _whole_ and loved. 

‘You are quite correct, my dear. Shall we bargain again? Let us not forget, you also owe me for returning you home. What do you have that is _precious?_ ’

Her hands flew to the chain about her neck. Her mother’s necklace. She wore it always. It was gold, not that it would matter to him-- it was the fact that she treasured it, that he could take that from her and revel in the fact that she would miss it. 

‘M-my mother’s necklace. I have had it always. Is it worthy?’

He took it from her fingertips, lingering for a moment as their skin touched. He bowed and said quietly. ‘Worthy indeed, my lady.’ He tucked the necklace carefully into an inner pocket of the stiff leather coat he wore. Sincerity sounded strange from the lips of this creature. That done, he turned back to her friends, consideringly.

‘My price is her.’ He flicked an ugly finger towards Belle, who stood there, unflinching. He raised his voice. ‘If she will _willingly_ come with me, I’ll cancel all your debts.’

He had used her sense of loyalty against her before, she thought angrily. What she did not understand was _why_. Well, _this_ time she’d negotiate. 

‘I want a written contract and I want to know exactly in what _capacity_ I am to accompany you, if you please.’

There it was again, that brief flash of something that flickered in his eyes which on any other person might have been _hurt._

‘Why, as my honoured guest... of course.’ He held out his hand to her, a scroll and quill appearing in it. ‘Your friends will have their happy endings if you will come home with me to the Dark Castle.’ He raised his other hand over his heart when she still hesitated, ‘I’ll not lay a finger on you unless you bid me.’ Belle blushed. ‘ _However!’_ He pressed the quill into her hand and turned his back to provide a flat surface for her to sign. He turned his head and said softly, for her ears only ‘It’s forever this time, dearie.’

Belle smiled wanly and glanced at her friends who looked on aghast. It was not the ashamed hope on Snow White’s face or the protective glare Red was levelling at Rumpelstiltskin that made her press the quill to parchment. It was the memory of soft words and strong arms around her on a dark night, soothing and comforting. 

Rumpelstiltskin may not _look_ like her Mr. Gold, but she knew that they must be, essentially, the same-- and he had taken _such_ care of her in those confusing months together. It wouldn’t be so bad. She could find a measure of contentment with him, after all-- she had before, she could again.

In her curling, looping, script that seemed to flow easier with a goose feather than it had a heavy gold pen, she signed her name. 

She could not read his expression as he straightened up, but she could see that the triumphant grin he threw at the assembled company was forced; he was not so gleeful as his body language was trying to prove.

He reached out a hand to take Belle’s and stopped, his finger tips glowing. He _could not_ touch her. His expression turned wry as he withdrew his hand and bent his head towards her.

‘ _If_ you would be so kind, my dear,’ he murmured, gesturing to the doors. She waved a hand to her friends and walked through the crowd with him, proudly, bravely and with a small smile burgeoning on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Rumpelstiltskin is due a little payback isn't he? Not so nice to have what you want dangled just out of reach, is it?


	12. Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumpelstiltskin, a journey and a homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you LadyofJest for your continued patience in sorting out my sloppy errors.
> 
> Thank you to all of you who read this and a special thanks go to those of you who leave a comment. 
> 
> :)

When he’d popped in to stir things up at Prince James’ wedding, Rumpelstiltskin had not expected Belle to be there. After two months of frantic searching, he had only hoped to bargain for aid to find her. If only she weren’t alone and friendless, or injured by some magical enemy.

After the first month had passed with no trace of her, he’d been crazed. He had returned from the palaces of Agrabah in despair and deliberately smashed every single breakable object in his lonely Great Hall. The windows were particularly satisfying to hurl chairs at, except they immediately mended themselves (which rather defeated the purpose). 

What if she were dead? He didn’t think he could bear that. What if something had gone wrong and she had not made it safely home? He’d already lost her once; he’d call in favours from every single being in the land if it meant he never had to mourn her again.

In his frustration, he had tracked down the former Mrs. Hubbard, spiteful receptionist extraordinaire, and taught her a valuable lesson in the damage that words could inflict. It gave him something to do that did not involve scouring the world for the nameless woman he wanted.

Fletcher, who still worked for him, had been sent to the Far Fens to search, and was yet to return. He’d lobbed another crystal chalice.

What if she didn’t want to be found?

That was an unsettling thought. He knew he’d given her reason to want to be free of him. Especially in those first months together. He’d only thought of himself. When he wanted her, he took her, and although he had sometimes wondered if she’d refuse him if she could... he’d never asked for fear of her answer. 

Was he forever doomed to need more of Belle than he actually had? At first, he’d just wanted her, then after he’d had her, wanted her _constantly._ When there was no obstacle to that, he’d wanted her to make her desire him in return, just enough for her to understand what she did to him, he’d thought. That wasn’t enough either. Once he’d realised he loved her, he wanted her forever and _then_ he’d started to dream of the impossible. Rumpelstiltskin wanted her heart.

Which had led him to the lowering realisation that he was not worthy of it. He, who would now grovel at her dainty feet for the favour of a smile, had knowingly arranged her life so that binding herself to him for a year was the lesser of two evils.

He felt a roiling in his gut when he thought of her bravery that first night. Oh, he’d been gentle-- generous even, but that did not alter the fact that she hadn’t been there out of inclination but out of loyalty to the man who did not deserve to be called her father. He wished he could dig Moe French up and torture him all over again for being the means by which he’d trapped her. No, that wasn’t right. It was himself that deserved to suffer, and it ought to be at her hands too.

She wouldn’t, though; he knew his darling. He could hand her the dagger with his name on it and show her how to drive it into his heart in fair recompense and she’d not do it. His gentle Belle. It would be a less tortuous way to die than this _agony_ of not knowing where she was. If she could get her to come to him, he’d treat her like a queen. 

Rumpelstiltskin felt shame, thick and cloying, engulf him in its hold. He was still selfish in his love for her, then. He knew that if he could find her and keep her with him forever, he would-- but he was too cowardly to let the woman he’d wronged _choose_ to leave him. Life without Belle was no life at all. He could not live without having her near him; she was too generous to hate him as she ought to, he knew, and he would take advantage of it.

To think that once upon a time he had thought that power was the key to his eternal happiness-- and now that he had _such_ magic, his life was empty and meaningless. True, he made deals, occasionally indulging in a spot of terrorizing people, but he just didn’t get the same kick out of it anymore. Rumpelstiltskin wished that Belle was there to gently chide him into doing the noble thing. He _really_ hoped that the conscience he’d developed only extended to Belle-- being a duplicitous villain was rather necessary if you were the Dark One. 

He’d shown up at Prince James’ palace, hoping for a lead. Snow White, if she was indeed the former Mary Margaret; judging by the descriptions of the commoners, had been rather friendly with Belle. Perhaps she’d have some idea of where his elusive girl was.

When he’d heard her voice addressing him, _naming_ him for the first time, he’d not been able to turn to see her fast enough. Belle. Arrayed in a queenly golden gown that did her lovely face and figure justice. Beautiful Belle. He’d heard her words but struggled to understand... was she really implying she’d been living like a peasant?! And him with a castle the size of a village? He bowed to her-- it seemed a more socially acceptable greeting than the myriad of alternatives flitting through his mind.

Rumpelstiltskin thought his heart might burst with pride when she’d used the wording of the first contract against him to free herself of any obligation. He had loathed himself when she’d offered her mother’s necklace to pay her own debt; she knew what he meant when he asked for something precious. He’d find a way to give it back to her, somehow.

When she asked him in what capacity he wanted her, shame had choked him and made him swear a magical oath that he’d not touch her unless she asked him to. He wasn’t a good enough man not to slightly regret that moment of spontaneity, particularly when he couldn’t even hold her hand, but it was worth it when she walked out with him with a smile on her face. In this world, his Belle’s courage did not stem from the desperation of a pawn; in this world, she was a valiant knight selflessly freeing her loved ones from the bondage of debt.

He assisted her into his luxurious carriage and summoned an astonished Fletcher to drive it home. Rumpelstiltskin could not aid her into the conveyance, and so watched, burning, as she gave her hand to Fletcher to hand her in. 

Darkness fell and with it the temperature. As much as he enjoyed seeing her lovely shoulders on display, Rumpelstilskin saw her shiver and, with a wave of his hand, a fine black cashmere cloak covered her.

‘Thank you.’ She met his eyes and he nodded. ‘Where are we going, sir?’

‘The Dark Castle. It is a very long way, but the roads are mostly good and we should be there by morning. Try to sleep, my dear.’

‘Oh, I am not tired just yet. We are to travel through the night? How will Mr. Fletcher see?’ She broke off. ‘What is his name here? I suppose he’s not Mr. Fletcher any longer.’

‘No, he’s still known as Fletcher-- says he prefers it and I don’t care what he calls himself. Perhaps you will coax it out of him one day.’ He drank in her hesitant smile. ‘Fletcher can see well enough in the dark; I gave him a potion.’

‘Oh,’ she said and he was reminded of that last afternoon in his kitchen, telling her a seemingly unbelievable truth and tasting her sweet kiss goodbye. The last time he had touched her, _months_ ago. How on earth was he to manage without being driven insane?

‘Tell me, Belle, did you believe me? When I told you that I would break the curse?’

She had been trying to see out of the window and looked back to him thoughtfully. ‘Ye-es, as much as I _could_ believe it. I knew you weren’t joking. I suppose it was the curse; I could not entirely understand that I could not be complete unless I was here. It’s an unsettling feeling, thinking that I lived so many years with a piece of myself missing.’

He looked at her, the woman who made him want to be a better man, and agreed. 

‘It is so strange, Rumpelstiltskin, that when we first arrived the two sets of memories were so overwhelming. The girls and I did not leave the house that first day, we all had such headaches! But-- the memories of Storybrooke seem to have faded, like-- like a dream. Will I forget entirely one day? I don’t think I should like that.’

‘No, you’ll never forget entirely, but its not natural to have memories of two lifetimes in your head at once. The magic keeps the real ones and reduces the curse memories.’ Her eyes were intent on his, the days of her being her too timid to meet his gaze were apparently gone. He was glad of it.

‘Will you tell me what your name is here? Had I known it I could have found you with a simple spell. I know nothing of your life. If you are not too tired, will you tell me?’

He tried to keep the pleading tone out of his voice, but it had been so _long_ since he had been in her company, and if he could not kiss her then hearing her voice might take the edge off his frustration. She smiled at him and he sighed.

‘Belle LeFay. My father-- whose name is Maurice-- is a ruler in a small town at the eastern edge of the Far Fens. My mother passed when I was a young girl. It has been a pleasant life; Papa is a nobleman and, I believe, a just leader. I am very proud of him. I have not seen him since the return. It is very, very far and Red needed me after Snow went. I suppose when you broke the curse, we remained with the people we were with when we fell asleep.’ Rumpelstiltskin gaped at her; how had she seen it when he had not? She started again a moment later. ‘My Father-- in Storybrooke, he was not himself. He went missing. Would... would you be able to find him here? ‘Tis just, I should like him to know I am safe.’

Rumpelstiltskin frowned. He did not regret Moe French’s ending, but he did regret that Belle would be upset by his death. A death in Storybrooke could not translate to life in the Fairytale Lands. He waved his hands in the air and showed her an image of a well kept mausoleum. She stared.

‘I fear it will not be possible my dear.’ He spoke softly, carefully. ‘The Sheriff found your Father and Regina’s remains in the woods. He had not met his end... naturally, and Regina was surrounded by pills. The Sheriff thought that she did away with your Father and then may have committed suicide herself.’

She was silent for a long while and he began to fear she’d catch him in his deception; Belle was awfully sharp. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and he felt like a cad. He produced a handkerchief and carefully, _unwillingly_ avoiding her skin, pressed it into her trembling hand.

She blew her nose once and then sagged against the seat sobbing. Rumpelstiltskin remained still, strained and wanting desperately to be able to take her in his arms, or kiss her head or just pat her back... _anything_ rather than this inability to comfort her with anything other than words. He had no words. He wielded words as a weapon and was skillful with it, but gentle words? He was struck dumb. 

He silently watched as heaving sobs wracked her slender frame. It was a long journey, and she eventually fell asleep to the rocking of the carriage.

Rumpelstiltskin did not sleep that night, but instead remained opposite his love and watched her slumber-- as if, just by looking at her enough, he could erase the agony and fear that their separation had scarred him with. 

Dawn broke, a riot of glorious rosy golden light over the snow-covered mountains of the Dark Castle, and the carriage came to a halt outside the front door. 

Rumpelstiltskin was home, and with him he had brought the most precious person in the all the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it. :) Next chapter will be up in four days.


	13. The Queen of Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in the Dark Castle takes some adjusting to and Rumpelstiltskin is not _quite_ the same as Mr. Gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to Lady of Jest, it seems like yesterday that she stepped up to the difficult task of sorting out my punctuation. We are now coming up to the end, what shall I do?! (interrobang, just for ladyofjest. You're welcome. :) )
> 
> MarquesadeSantos has been a much braver writer than I and has written a missing scene called 'Between the Sheets'. Do read it and enjoy, I hadn't the guts to even attempt their first night. :)
> 
> Lastly, and I do apologise for this lengthy A/N. I have to announce that I actually have the best DH in the entire universe. He designed and had printed a t-shirt with 'Not Forever' on it in the style of the opening title of 'Once upon a time'. He never said a word until it arrived and then he just said how pleased he was for me, that I'd finished writing my first fanfiction. 
> 
> And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is what real life romance is. (sigh)
> 
> Oh yes. The story, you'll be wanting to read the next chapter. Better get on with it then.

In some ways, Belle thought, living with Rumpelstiltskin was a very different experience to living with Mr. Gold. Mr. Gold had made her a very pampered pet, whilst Rumpelstiltskin seemed to think she was only half a step down from a Roman deity. 

He brought her charming little gifts in the evenings when she saw him. The first evening, he said quite clearly that he wasn’t going to inflict his hideous form on her any more than necessary, but that it would please him very much if she permitted him to see her for dinner every evening. She did not mind at all, as it happened, and he’d produced a bolt of cloth made entirely of gold for her to do what she liked with.

It was that way every night: he’d thank her for her company and offer a gift, then would spend the entire evening with his attention utterly transfixed on her. They’d eat a sumptuous meal together and share a little conversation. Mostly, Rumpelstiltskin just looked at her. Belle wasn’t given to false modesty: she knew she wasn’t ugly, but when he looked at her she felt as though she were the fairest in the land and that her name was deserved.

He never touched her and, after that first failed attempt in the ballroom, he did not even try. She thought he might want to, but he never asked for her permission and Belle, although sometimes missing the feeling of his arms around her, did not know how to ask. 

She was under no illusions that with everyone, save her, he was a bad-tempered, demanding, overbearing scoundrel, but she could not change who he was and sometimes-- when he was regaling her with the details of his latest deal-- she’d find herself rolling her eyes alongside him at some unfortunate being’s utter stupidity. She tried, on these occasions, to feel pity for them but often (to Rumpelstiltskin’s obvious delight) failed miserably.

Sometimes though, she did not have to feign sterness. Like the time she had discovered the voicebox of a woman from Storybrooke who had crossed swords with Mr. Gold. It wasn’t like it’d been hidden or anything, just tossed into the back of a wardrobe that she’d been exploring. She hadn’t even known what it was.

‘Rumpelstiltskin, what is this?’ She held up the glass box containing the strange, sinewy item. He took one disinterested glance at it and returned his attention to the capon of lamb on his plate. 

‘I believe it is technically known as a larynx, my dear.’ He didn’t even sound _bothered_ that she’d plunked it on the dining room table.

‘What was it doing in a cupboard? Is it an animal’s? Why would you keep such a thing?’

‘A cupboard seemed the most logical place to put it at the time-- not very respectful to just consign someone’s voice box to the fire, is it now?’ 

Belle was appalled. ‘A person's? What terrible crime did they commit against you that you’d take away their _voice_?’

He wouldn’t tell her and she’d sat in silent, frowning disapproval for the rest of the meal. It distressed her companion enough that, by the time he came to pull out her chair for her, he said quite seriously, ‘Would it please you if I returned it to its rightful owner, my Lady?’

‘Yes!’ came the emphatic reply.

‘Well then,’ was all he murmured, and she knew that he would do it.

She learned that during the daytime, he was most often sat at a large wooden spinning wheel where he would patiently spin straw into fine gold thread. She had tried to sit with him once or twice, but abandoned the attempt when she saw that it interfered with his concentration. She asked him why he did it, and was disappointed with his evasive response. She wished that he would trust her, even a little. It was clear that he did not need to make gold for wealth’s sake alone-- judging by the array of treasures she had discovered in his castle, he was already obscenely rich.

One day, when spring began to rear its head, driving away the harsh frosts of winter, a knight and his escort rode up to the castle doors. Fletcher came to fetch her from the library, where she had been buried in a history book for most of the morning. 

‘My Lady, there is a fellow seeking the Master at the door, but I do not know where he is to be found. Sir Gaston says he is from the Far Fens and seeks Rumpelstiltskin’s assistance for something. Will you see him, my Lady, until I can find the Master?’

Belle, rather curious to see someone who hailed from her country, assented and laid aside her book. She sent Fletcher to the tower: Rumpelstiltskin had told her he liked the sense of being surrounded by the howling winds of nature up there, and did much of his magic in the round room at the highest point in the castle.

Sir Gaston was a tall, broad-shouldered and handsome man with a shock of dark hair swept back from a clear and noble-looking brow. He wore a red coat and kept a hand on the hilt of his sword, which he had not, apparently, left at the door as good manners dictated that he ought.

‘Sir Gaston?’ Belle swept a curtsey. ‘I fear that Rumpelstilskin is proving hard to find today. Fletcher has gone to search and will hopefully not be too long. May I offer you some tea?’

‘Madam! Forgive me, I had not realised... I should not have wished to disturb you at all.’ He made a very creditable bow, but Belle found herself preferring Rumpelstiltskin’s rather more flamboyant style. 

‘I am sorry that you should have come so far, only to have to wait a while longer. At least I may offer you rather better hospitality than you will have met on the roads.’ Belle gestured to a chaise by the roaring fire; although the worst of winter was over, the castle was still a draughty place. She turned to a low table and poured from a charming little tea set that Rumpelstiltskin had given her, enchanted so that she never had to call for hot tea to be brought up from the kitchens.

Sir Gaston looked very out of place in her parlour, with a dainty pink teacup in his large hands. He took a sip and thanked her in a serious tone before setting it down ponderously.

‘In all the tales of the Dark One, I have never heard tell of a lady kept in his castle.’

Belle knew when someone was digging for information and smiled sweetly. ‘I should imagine that there are many far more interesting stories to be told of Rumpelstiltskin.’ She deliberately answered him vaguely-- perhaps Rumpelstiltskin’s contrary sense of mischief was rubbing off on her.

Sir Gaston scowled and went to sit next to Belle, who discreetly tried to edge away.

‘Are you in need of rescuing?’ he asked bluntly. ‘I cannot see how such a sweet and beautiful lady could bear to suffer the presence of a monstrous beast.’ He took her hand and brought it to his wet mouth.

Belle tried to pull away. ‘What? No! It is kind of you to be concerned for me, Sir Gaston, but I am _indeed_ here of my own free will.’ She tugged again and was annoyed that he didn’t take the hint. ‘Sir! If you value your teeth, please let go of my hand!’

An icy, drawling voice came from the doorway. ‘If you value your _life_ , you will release my Lady’s hand.’ 

Fletcher had clearly located Rumpelstiltskin then. Wonderful. Sir Gaston, however, was clearly a very brave fool. He looked at Rumpelstiltskin and saw only the monster he expected to see. He rose to draw his sword and did not let go of Belle. When he stood, she found herself awkwardly dragged up with him. The bumbling fool obviously had a misguided hero complex because he attempted to shove Belle behind him. She thought acidly that all that accomplished was to give Rumpelstiltskin a clear shot.

‘You threaten me, Dark One? I am Sir Gaston, and you, _beast_...’ He said no more. Rumpelstiltskin, with a lightly mocking smile, snapped his fingers and turned him into a red rose. It floated to the floor and landed at Belle’s feet.

‘How very appropriate,’ remarked Rumpelstiltskin, strolling over. He bent to pick it up and handed it to Belle, who wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or bid him turn the man back.

‘Rumpelstiltskin! Is he still alive in there?’ She really, really ought to feel more scandalized.

‘Oh yes. He will return to his natural state as soon as he feels remorse for his insult. If you think it will be a while, by all means, plant him in the garden.’

‘Is there no way to free the poor man?’

‘Probably. I’d not recommend you try,’ he said icily.

‘Would a kiss do it?’ wondered Belle, innocently. Rumpelstiltskin stiffened and she continued, ‘I have been reading little bits of folklore. A kiss breaks most curses, does it not?’

‘ _Belle_ ,’ he said, quite seriously, ‘If your lips go anywhere near that flower, I shall _burn_ it.’ He produced a small fireball and held it, flames dancing, in his hand. ‘Come now, it is best not to interfere, my dear. Your kiss would have to be True Love’s Kiss, a rare thing indeed, and I doubt you are silly enough to have fallen head over heels for a pretty face in so short a time.’

‘As if I would fall in love with _any_ man simply on account of his looks. I would hope that even you believe that love is founded on something deeper than the superficial.’ He was looking at her strangely and she shrugged. ‘I suppose I had better put the poor man in some water then.’ 

Rumpelstiltskin laughed shortly and vanished the flames. He was about to leave the room when Belle stopped him.

‘Rumpelstiltskin, wait. Please.’

‘Yes, my Lady?’

She held out her hand for him to kiss. ‘Thank you for your timely intervention. I should like... that is... you may take my hand, from time to time... if you so wish.’

He practically flung himself at her and seized her hand, bowing his head to pepper it with urgent, earnestly tender kisses. His lips lingered longest over the tiny white scar on her finger. Belle closed her eyes and let out a quiet sigh of contentment. 

When he excused himself some time later, saying that he would see her later in the evening, Belle headed off to the gardens to enjoy some fresh air. As she walked beneath the blossoming trees, she pondered the impulse that had made her allow (nay ask!) him to touch her. She supposed that it meant she trusted him not to harm her-- had she ever _really_ feared him like that? Perhaps she was lonely.

Storybrooke seemed so long ago now, as though decades had passed rather than mere months. Belle was glad that the memories were becoming dimmer with each passing day, but it did make it more difficult to cling to the memories that might help her keep Rumpelstiltskin at a safe distance.

She thought of the sensation of his mouth on her skin and tried, very hard, to remind herself why forgetting would be such a bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those of you who leave such lovely comments. I grin every time I see one. :)


	14. Deal Me Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jewellery, declarations and doing the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you LadyofJest, once more for your helpful comments and patience. :)
> 
> Thank you to all of you who commented on the last chapter, it is appreciated.

He asked her to marry him for the first time that evening, holding out a gold band with sparkling sapphires embedded all around the ring.

She’d stared at it dumbly and, mistaking her silence for a dislike of his offering, he’d put it back in his pocket immediately.

Rumpelstiltskin said, ‘You are perfectly right of course, it is not worthy of you... it was the blue of the stones, they very nearly match the blue of your eyes.’ He exhaled and kissed her hand. ‘Never fear, Belle! I shall find you an appropriate offering. I bid you goodnight, my lady.’ And with that, he turned and left her sitting there, without awaiting an answer.

Which was fortunate, because she hadn’t a clue how to say ‘no’ kindly. How could she marry him? After their arrangement in Storybrooke, it seemed impossible.

The next night after dinner, he presented her with a large ruby set in a rose gold band and asked her again. She mutely shook her head, anxious that he would either be angered or, worse, unhappy. He did not seem to be either, to her relief, but neither did he seem to have registered her rejection. He merely said ‘ah! well then. Why would you want a red stone when the tint of your lips is infinitely lovelier? I shall find one you like better, dearie.’

She opened her mouth to deny that there was anything amiss with the jewel, but once again he said goodnight and left her alone.

The third night was a diamond. The fourth, an intricate work of art in filigree gold with three emeralds set in it. She had managed to work her way up to an ‘I’m sorry, no, thank you’ by then and that was her response to the next six times he asked her to be his wife. She grew increasingly unhappy with each refusal time but he never pressed her to change her mind-- just increased his efforts to find her a band that she might like enough to accept him.

He was certainly imaginative, she’d give him that. He offered her a pearl ring that he’d had (stolen!) from King Neptune himself, another ring crafted from a dragon’s scale... the bluish mithril band had been very pretty but still not tempting enough to accept him without love. The next ring was a clear gleaming wonder and Rumpelstiltskin told her that he’d enchanted some ice taken from the Snow Queen’s throne. After that came the rings made from a unicorn horn and fairy dust which she rejected also, growing more and more distressed at having to refuse him.

The eleventh proposal was oddly touching. Rumpelstiltskin asked her to accept a ring that he’d made from pieces that he’d painstakingly chipped from the dagger that, he said, controlled him. She remembered how domineering he had been in Storybrooke and was moved to thank him for the gesture-- it would be a difficult thing indeed for this man to surrender his free will to her. She asked for the story behind it and was greatly moved when he told it and kissed his cheek in thanks.

He must have taken that as encouragement that he was on the right track, because the night after that he knelt at her feet and quietly asked her to accept a plain band of something unrecognizable to her. It lay in her hand, small and bright scarlet in colour. It seemed to pulse in her palm and she looked into his hopeful face, questioning.

He smiled at her and gave a short, nervous laugh. ‘It is a piece of my heart, my dear. I had to look hard for a bit that was not entirely blackened, but you do deserve the very best, after all.’ She looked at the ring resting on her palm and pressed her lips together.

‘You are displeased?’ He sounded so _resigned._ Shy, almost. She hated to keep refusing him, hated to think he might be made miserable by a decision she had made, but neither would she make him happy out of pity. That would eventually make them both miserable.

This needed to stop-- he could not go around hacking off bits of himself in the hope that she might want to keep even the smallest part of him.

Belle, in an utterly revolted kind of way, appreciated the point he was trying to make. Men spoke of Rumpelstiltskin’s heartlessness often, and if she were to be his wife, she’d have evidence to the contrary right there on her finger. She did not even like to _think_ about how much obtaining it must have hurt him.

‘Rumpelstiltskin... it isn’t the rings.’ She said it as quietly, as softly as she possibly could and handed the piece of heart back to him. ‘You mustn’t hurt yourself like this. Please, stop.’ Her vision blurred with tears, and she tried to stop them falling.

He looked at her, for all the world like a lonely child denied his only friend. At length, he spoke, but not as smoothly as usual. ‘I was afraid it might be that. Is it... my ugliness? I might be able to find a spell to cover it when I’m around you.’

She was genuinely surprised. ‘No, Rumpelstiltskin. I hardly notice that anymore.’

‘Oh.’ He looked so disappointed, she wanted to weep. She felt tears trace down her cheeks, and he saw them and tried to smile. ‘Don’t upset yourself, my Lady. After all, I’d not have you wed me simply because you are too kindhearted to cause me pain.’

She took his hand. ‘Oh! I don’t wish to hurt you by continually saying ‘no’, but neither do I wish you to cut your heart up in the hopes that I might think it pretty!’

‘The pain from each is not so very different, you know,’ he said quietly. His voice became rougher and quite hoarse. ‘I know that I do not deserve your forgiveness, Belle. I ought not have taken you as I did in Storybrooke. I rationalized it in my mind. Told myself that what I was doing was not so very bad.’ He looked down at the ring, the pulsing seemed slower now. ‘I think that what I did to you was worse than any murder I have committed. I coerced the woman I adore into staying with a monster against her will. I am sorry.’ He pressed her hand and looked into her eyes. ‘I’d cut out the rest of my heart before taking away your choice again. I love you, Belle. I am so very sorry.’

As he turned his hand in hers and bent over it, he did not seem to dare bring it to his mouth, but a single shining tear fell onto her hand and seeped into the white skin there. She raised her other hand to his face and carefully brushed away his hair that had fallen over his horrid forehead. The sight of his remorse shifted something inside her and warmed her heart.

‘I forgive you, Rumpelstiltskin. _I forgive you.’_

‘Belle,’ he whispered. ‘You can’t. You don’t know all I have done.’

She smiled sadly. ‘Yes. I imagine your life has been very unhappy. It doesn’t matter, Rumpelstiltskin. I forgive you for every wrong you have committed against me. I don’t need you to list them,’ she said hastily, when he opened his mouth, ‘I suspect that some of them I’d prefer not to know about, but I forgive you regardless.’

He looked at her uncomprehending. ‘Thank you. I think,’ he said, slowly releasing her hand, ‘that you might be an angel.’

She laughed, self-conscious in the face of his rapt expression. ‘No. I know that I am not. I was considering punching Sir Gaston in the mouth just the other day, I don’t believe angels do that.’

His mouth turned down at the corner. ‘I’d have considered that justified. Incidentally, have you planted him yet?’

‘Yes. Mr. Fletcher found him a lovely sunny spot with heaps of manure. He’s thriving.’ She answered him absently, well aware that he’d deliberately changed the subject. A thought was blossoming inside her-- that she wasn’t exactly indifferent to this unhappy suitor before her. Once she had offered him forgiveness, what was stopping her from caring for him? It was food for thought, and she watched him wander to the window with his back to her.

Why did it hurt her to continually be rejecting him?

She didn’t see him at dinner for the next two nights and, instead of being relieved, was very disappointed. She respected his desire for solitude, however, and busied herself in the labyrinthine library.

She had set herself the epic task of dusting every single book before reorganizing the categories and when Rumpelstiltskin, two days later and dressed for a journey, found her covered in dust with a cloth in her hand-- she realised she’d been more immersed in her task than she realised.

Her heart gave an odd lurch when she looked up to find him watching her. She had once found it so unsettling: what had changed?

He regarded her gravely and, when she asked what was wrong, he sounded stilted when he spoke.

‘I’m not a good man, Belle. I would, in fact, say that I am sometimes very wicked indeed. It’s the Dark One, you see... it makes it so easy to indulge in my less pleasant foibles. I think, however, that you might have some sorcery about you that is even more powerful than the magic I command.’ He slowly made his way toward her. In his hand, he held a scroll, wound up tightly in his fist. ‘I think... I am almost sure... that I am going to do something... unusually... noble.’

He sounded so appalled that Belle almost laughed, but his stony face stopped her. In one fluid, elegant motion Rumpelstiltskin flicked his fingers and the scroll he held was reduced to a pile of ashes.

‘You are free of me. I’ll not trouble you again. You deserve-- you deserve-- better than to have your kindness abused by a monstrous beast. I don’t want you to leave, the castle is your home, you will live in comfort. I’m going to another castle.’ Here he tried out a smirk, but it fell rather flat in light of his astonishing declaration. ‘Apparently a certain Prince Phillip has just defeated a she-dragon-- no one wants her lair and it ought to suit me, don’t you think?’

She opened her mouth to protest that he really didn’t need to leave his home, but he stopped her.

‘Please. Please don’t, my dear. Your pity is really quite... agonising, you know. I know what will happen-- you will convince yourself that it would only be right to try to love me back, and I-- with the best of intentions for once-- would struggle every day to convince myself that it is the truth. You need not even try to pretend, Belle. I’m well aware,’ he struggled to take a breath, ‘that no one could ever, _ever_ love me.’ 

With that, he raised his hand in farewell, turned smartly on his heel and was gone in an instant.

Belle sat, dusting cloth still in hand, staring agape at the spot he had disappeared from.

It wasn’t the display of magic that held her mouth open with surprise. It wasn’t even the fact that Rumpelstiltskin had just categorically proven that he loved her more than he loved himself. It was that her head had finally caught up with her heart and that she understood in a moment what had been eluding her for _months._

She loved him.

She loved him, and he had just left her thinking that she never could.

She loved him, and she was going to have to hunt him down in order to tell him.

Of all the stupid, inconsiderate, _romantic_ times to suddenly develop a sense of honour, why did Rumpelstiltskin have to chose _now?!_

Belle smiled fondly and threw her duster to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was the penultimate chapter, I do hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I shall see about posting the next chapter on the 19th, as a Happy Birthday present to myself. :) Although, thinking about it, there will be a little bit of sadness in finishing this. 
> 
> What a good job I have my next story mostly written...
> 
> *cue mysterious music*


	15. All In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle hunts down her happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LadyofJest, whom I cannot thank enough for your work on this story, has given up her own time to get this beta'd in time for me to post it today. I am so grateful for all you have done. Thank you.
> 
> To those of you who have read and commented on this first writing adventure, thank you--it encouraged me to carry on and get properly addicted. :)
> 
> I'm feeling strangely emotional about releasing this chapter to you, its a bit heart wrenching that its over.
> 
> *exuant. weeping*

It took Belle five days to locate him. One to journey to the palace of Aurora and Phillip (for information about the recently defeated Maleficent), two to the Enchanted Forest (to seek out the Blue Fairy) and another two to get through the Forest of No Return. The last leg of the journey would have gone faster, but Fletcher-- utterly bewitched by their short conversation with the fairy-- steered the carriage down the wrong fork in a road and landed them in a spot of bother with a very grumpy giant. It took Belle a considerable amount of charm (mingled with threats of the Dark One’s dire vengeance) to get out of that bit of unpleasantness. Even then, the travelling coach was later held up by a ghostly highwayman with a mask and a blessedly temperamental set of dueling pistols. That adventure ended with a mad, terrified flight through the forest, Belle clinging on desperately to the side of the seat, trying not to remember the last time she crashed in a wood. 

Eventually, though, the trees thinned and Rumpelstiltskin’s temporary castle came into view. Fletcher, nerves shot from the encounter with the inhabitants of the forest, asked to remain with the carriage and so Belle set off alone. It wasn’t a particularly inviting castle-- the steep ravine surrounding it rather put most visitors off, Belle supposed. She, however, was made of sterner stuff and began the climb down without making a fuss. Skirts made the job harder and, by the time she had hauled herself up the other side of the ravine, she was thinking longingly of the jeans she wore in Storybrooke. Her hands slipped on the rocks several times and she nearly fell to an awful end but she swallowed her fear and exhaustion and carried on, hoping that Rumpelstiltskin would be with her on the journey back. The thought spurred her on and soon she was dragging her weary feet to the rocky path up to the castle itself.

Entering through the great oak front door (which had, luckily, been left ajar), Belle resolutely avoided looking at the human bones that littered the stone floor. It was an odd choice of place for Rumpelstiltskin to elect to live, but she supposed it suited his sense of the dramatic.

It took the worn out woman a preposterously long time to find the staircase that led up to the tallest tower. (She knew this man, really it was the obvious place to start searching for him.) As she neared the top, she nearly wept in relief when she heard the clickety-clack of a spinning wheel. Rumpelstiltskin was at home.

She pushed the door ajar and waited for him to register her presence. He was sat with his back to the door, his nimble fingers busy at the wheel; as he spun, he dropped his golden thread into a cauldron that was hovering over a roaring fire. He had made a pot of molten gold for some strange reason. Well, it was an innocent enough occupation, Belle supposed.

It didn’t take Rumpelstiltskin long to realise she that was there. He turned sharply, his mouth dropping open in surprise. 

‘ _Belle!_ Are-- are you really here? How...?’ He sounded utterly shocked as he rose from his stool, his hands reaching for her, seemingly without thought or design.

She stepped into his arms and he wrapped them around her, automatically.‘Sorry it took me so long to get here. We had a few adventures on the way.’ She smiled up at him fondly. He looked awful. More awful than usual, anyway. 

‘We?’ he asked distractedly as she smoothed his grizzled hair back out of his face. His hands were on Belle’s waist and he absently ran his fingers up her sides. His eyes searched her face, wide and hopeful.

‘Fletcher and I. He drove the carriage, I didn’t think I could manage that bit on my own. I’m so pleased to see you!’ She grinned at him.

‘Belle. My darling! Why didn’t you just call for me? If you wanted to see me, I would have been there in an instant. There was no need for you to risk yourself by coming so far.’

‘Actually,’ she said, rather shyly, ‘I think there was. You didn’t seem to believe that I _could_ have fallen hopelessly in love with you, so I thought that I had better prove it.’

His shining eyes rested on her face, but a faint frown crossed his brow. ‘ Belle,’ he breathed. ‘It is a dangerous journey, pet, but I think... I think I am very glad you came!’ He buried his face in her neck, and she heard a muffled sob. She held him close to her until he regained his composure. Before she could tenderly whisper her love for him into his oddly coloured ear, his head snapped up. ‘Are you telling me that you drove through the Forest of No Return with just _Fletcher_ for protection? _Are you completely insane, woman?’_

Well, she could deal with his fury rather better than his anguish. ‘Rumpelstiltskin,’ she said, sharply. ‘Not six days ago, you offered me a wedding ring made from a piece of your own heart, which _you, yourself, had cut out._ I do _not_ think you are in any way qualified to bandy words like “insane” around.’ 

He opened his mouth and snapped it shut it again. Belle reached up to brush her lips against his forehead. ‘It was fine,’ she said gently. ‘I love you, Rumpelstiltskin.’

He stared at her wordlessly, clearly gobsmacked as she kissed his knuckles. He dropped to both his knees in the next instant, bending his head low to kiss the hem of her dress. ‘Belle, I cannot live without you. I know I am a monster, I know that I am hideous, but please... I beg you, take pity on me and be my wife. I adore you. If you love me as you say you do, will you _stay with me forever?’_

She tugged on his shoulder until he stood up, pained hope etched all over his discoloured face. ‘Yes, please.’ She grinned.

‘Yes?’ She nodded. He took her in his arms, lifting her up and spinning her around, smiling as she let out a peal of giggles. He gently put her down and flourished a hand. Twelve rings lay on a velvet cushion in front of her. ‘Well, my dear, which one would you like?’ he asked, his eyes brightly dancing.

‘None of them, thank you,’ she said, simply, and before he could respond, held out her hand for him to see. The visit to the Blue Fairy had been painful and had taken an awful lot of pleading, but there, wrapped around her finger was the name ‘Rumpelstiltskin’, indelibly written by fairy magic into her skin. ‘Its forever, dearie,’ was all she said, enjoying his shocked face.

Rumpelstiltskin blinked, his eyes suspiciously glassy, and with another ripple of magic, he sent the twelve rings of his choosing sailing into the cauldron. A wave of his hand lifted them out again, now all linked together in a chain. 

He presented them to Belle. ‘They were all unworthy to grace your finger, but perhaps you might sometimes consider wearing them about your lovely neck?’

Belle couldn’t seem to stop smiling at him as she dipped her head once, suddenly shy.

He pulled her to him, scattering fervent kisses over her face. ‘You love me?’ A kiss on her forehead. ‘You will marry me?’ A brief brush on her nose. ‘You will stay with me,’ hovering tantalizingly over her willing mouth, ‘forever?’ 

A tear fell from her eye. ‘Yes’, she sniffed. ‘I love you, I will marry you and I will stay with you forever.’ With that, she decided that there had been enough talking and dragged his mouth down to finally meet hers.

The kiss he gave her made her toes curl and pleasure tingle through every single nerve ending in her body. Belle felt, in that moment, as though her soul was kissing his and that they would never be separated again. The happy noise Rum made in his throat told her that his thoughts matched hers exactly. She felt the dark magic leave him, raising them both up into the air with a burst of light and her happiness was even greater, knowing that he would no longer suffer the taint of the Dark One. He was free.

Curses don’t like to be broken. Even the pure power of True Love’s Kiss did not prevent the Dark One from lashing out in desperation with a vicious ribbon of flame at the lovers. They remained safely entwined, however, and the curse swelled and raged until it finally shattered above Rumpelstiltskin’s head. The ancient castle creaked and groaned about them but did not fall. 

When they finally broke apart, a transformed Rumpelstiltskin looked at Belle in awe. ‘I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you, and it wasn’t even the real you-- just a photograph on a mantelpiece. You had such an expression of love in your eyes that I have been trying since then to make you look at me like that, with that particular look. Oh, Belle! I don’t deserve you, but I will strive every single moment to be worthy of the love you are looking at me with right now and I will never, ever take your acceptance for granted.’

It took them a long time to leave the castle: Belle told him of her adventures with the Blue Fairy, the giant and the unpleasant climb up to the castle on the way. They were so wrapped up in their own happiness that it was necessary to kiss every few steps or so. She teasingly admired his altered appearance, enjoying the mock stern glance he cast her way. By the time they had left the castle building, the lovers saw that Fletcher had not been idle. A makeshift bridge lay across the treacherous ravine, so the trip back was far less fraught with danger than Belle’s first crossing-- although the man holding her hand sent increasingly dark looks down towards the jagged rocks at the bottom. 

Rumpelstiltskin, despite the joy of his love being requited and his curse lifted, had apparently not lost any of his penchant for intimidation; the expression on Fletcher’s face when his master flung him against a tree, his hand cutting off his air supply, was dismay.

‘Belle, wait in the carriage,’ Rumpelstiltskin bit out. The young lady did not argue, merely rolling her blue eyes and commenting that she wanted to change into some warm, dry clothes. Rumpelstiltskin returned his attention to the man currently fighting for breath. ‘You permitted your mistress to cross _that_ canyon alone? Had my lady come to harm, your fate would be too horrible to contemplate.’ He dropped his voice to a hiss. ‘You _know_ the lengths I will go to in protecting her. Consider yourself duly threatened.’ 

He turned his head toward the carriage, releasing his servant, as Belle stuck her head out through the window in time to see Fletcher drop, gasping to the ground. ‘Rumpelstiltskin! I’m cold, can we please go home?’ She smiled sunnily at him, slyly adding, ‘I need some help untying my dress.’ 

Rumpelstiltskin leapt lightly into the travelling coach. ‘Drive us home, Fletchy.’ 

Fletcher staggered over to the horses. ‘Understood, Sir.’ The man took hold of the reins with one hand and rubbed his poor abused throat with the other. He heard a stifled giggle come from within the carriage and did not bother repressing a smirk. 

The team of black horses strained and pulled at their harnesses as the heavy vehicle lurched and moved slowly forwards. The sun was just disappearing over the horizon, its waning light casting a vivid array of pinks and reds across the darkening skies. High above them, the evening star burst into view, twinkling brightly in the heavens. 

The travelling coach gradually picked up speed as the horses got into their galloping stride upon the widening road, eventually becoming little more than a flickering shadow on the horizon before disappearing out of sight altogether. 

It cannot be said that they disappeared into obscurity-- although certainly, as the decades passed, the tales of a Dark Sorcerer and his beautiful Lady became less horrific with each telling. Some said that she was his servant, contracted to remain with the hideous fiend forever; others said that she was his Queen, pampered and cherished and denied nothing that she desired. Of the various tales, the ones that whispered of a deep abiding love and a broken curse were the nearest to the reality, but even they fell short of verisimilitude.

The real truth? _Well..._

_They lived happily ever after, naturally._

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh go on. It's my birthday...type something in that little box down there, eh?


End file.
